


Steal The Rhythm Out From My Heart

by Nori



Series: In The Next Life We'll Be Good [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: A little comfort, Alternate Universe - Destiny, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Destiny (video game) - Freeform, Emotional Constipation, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Hurt No Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, sbb2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-16 17:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11833962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nori/pseuds/Nori
Summary: Humanity's dwindling numbers hang by a thread and the last of the Traveler's strange, powerful Light grows dimmer by the day. With their fearsome, unknown enemy closing in, it falls on the Guardians to defend the last of Earth's people. Steve, only recently reborn and still learning the limits of his inhuman abilities, is thrown headfirst into an unceasing battle for life itself. Falling in love with a mysterious, reticent Hunter isn't really part of the plan, but Steve's always been flexible. Now if he could just convince the object of his affections to admit he's in love, too, these long days of war might even be worth the trouble.---“You’re a madman,” Bucky informs him fondly. Steve steps forward, using both hands to grab the edges of Bucky’s hood and pulling until the material lies neat and even.“Probably,” he agrees amiably, and hops backwards off the cliff.





	1. A Titan’s Guide to Introductions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SiriusGrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiriusGrey/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the very bestest, my savior and sanity, my sounding board and partner in crime, [SiriusGrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiriusGrey/profile)
> 
> Title from "Black Sun on the Horizon" by Gunship.
> 
> I was lucky enough to get 2 super lovely artists for this fic, [EmeraldWolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeraldwolf/pseuds/Emeraldwolf) and [koreanrage](http://koreanrage.tumblr.com/). I'll add links to their art posts with the embedded images in the fic, so please give them some love for their awesome work! 
> 
> This fic could probably be read alone, but it'll make a whole lot more sense if you read [Part 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11156742/chapters/24896103) first.
> 
> **Glossary**
> 
> _Guardian_ : A reanimated corpse-turned-specialized soldier tasked with the defense of the last city on Earth and exploration of the lost remnants of humanity's Golden Age throughout the solar system.  
>  _Titan_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on strength and power.  
>  _Hunter_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on speed and finesse.  
>  _Warlock_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on... "space magic."  
>  _Traveler_ : A mysterious, city-sized sphere hovering close to Earth's surface which grants superhuman abilities to Guardians.  
>  _Ghost_ : A levitating artificial intelligence used by Guardians.  
>  _HUD_ : "Heads Up Display"  
>  _Fireteam_ : A small squad composed of 2 to 6 Guardians.  
>  _Cosmodrome_ : A shipyard located in Old Russia that once served as a vital link to space.

_"Don't let this sacrifice be in vain."_  
—Description on the gauntlets _Immolation Fists_

* * *

The Dreg’s face collapses under Steve’s fist and void energy bursts from his knuckles, engulfing him in a translucent purple shield. He swings his shotgun around and dives into the thick of things, relying on the force barrier to protect him. Five shells, five dead Fallen, easier than breathing. A last lingering Vandal chittering at him angrily goes down hard, the whip crack of a sniper rifle sounding only after the body hits the ground. 

“I got you, Titan,” a voice chimes over their open com channel. Steve takes a quick survey of the battlefield, judging it momentarily quiet, and twists to toss a salute at the massive wall looming behind them. On some scaffolding still clinging to the wall, he can just make out a tiny figure flipping him off, arm waving through the air aggressively. 

“Hunters,” he grunts, taking the time during this lull to load up his shotgun. “If I didn’t know Peggy, I’d assume they were all assholes.”

“They’re certainly characters,” his Ghost chirps brightly. A flash of blinding white light announces its physical presence, and when Steve looks up, the star-like AI is floating near his shoulder. It tips close to him, points pinching around the smooth plane that makes up its face. “It’s been hours. Are you feeling okay?”

Steve snorts fondly, waving his hand at the construct until it bobbles and ducks away. “Even if I weren’t okay,” he asks humorously, “what could we do about it? The Fallen haven’t let up yet.”

The Ghost shudders, bunching up its pointed shell. “A dead Titan is no good to anyone. If you need a break, you should take it.”

“If I die, you’ll just resurrect me,” Steve says, rolling his eyes.

“Well, but,” his Ghost splutters, “there’s no excuse for you getting sloppy because you’re tired! Don’t make things harder on your fellow Guardians.”

“What’s Dum Dum always say?” Steve muses. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead?”

“Your friends are not funny,” his Ghost replies flatly, “and neither are you.”

“You wound me,” Steve laughs, pressing a hand against his chest. 

Gun reloaded and battlefield quiet, Steve takes stock of the Titans around him. Off to his left is the young Awoken man, Vasalin, who rips his helmet off between waves of Fallen like he’s suffocating in there. He’s sitting in the muddy slush now, electric green eyes turned to the sky, but no worse for the wear. When he notices Steve’s attention on him, Vasalin gives him a big, dopey grin and waves. Steve returns the gesture and moves on.

To his right is the towering and terrifying Ming-hua, her armor glinting silver in the wan sunlight. She’s stalwart and unshakeable, leaning fearlessly into the Fallen onslaught. “You’ve been chosen,” she’d said before the Fallen had begun their assault, voice higher and lighter than Steve had expected. “We are the wall upon which the Darkness breaks.” Watching her now, Steve can believe it. She is a shining beacon, a testament to the upper reaches of a Titan’s ability. She would hold her ground against an entire army, Steve thinks, even if she were the only one left. 

A ways behind him is a robed Warlock, solar energy wafting from him in curls of orange. He’s said little since his arrival - floating down from the wall and alighting on the half-frozen mud so gently Steve doubts he even left a mark - but the devastating fusion grenades he’s hurled out into the Fallen lines say more than enough. The Warlock tips a nod to Steve and returns to his ruminations, fire stretching out around him. 

Up on the wall are a pair of Hunters, perched with their sniper rifles. One of them has clambered down to the battlefield twice, a gun made golden by fire in their hands, but they returned to the relative safety of their roost quickly enough. Steve doesn't doubt their skill or their conviction, but he can't quiet the nasty little thought that they're only here to ensure their own safety. It sticks in his mind though, the knowledge that not everyone on this battlefield believes unshakably in defending the last of humanity, no matter the sacrifice.

Granted, none of them can really die here, but it's the thought that counts. 

“Next wave inbound,” one of the Hunters warns breezily. 

“More punchy punchy fun times,” the other snickers. 

“Never met a Titan that didn't love a fist fight,” the first agrees.

Vasalin is frowning as he climbs to his feet, helmet clutched between his palms. He sidles toward Steve, eyes canted up to the wall. Steve keeps half an eye on his motion tracker, but they've been at this for hours now and the Fallen arrive exactly three minutes after the Hunters call them out like clockwork.

“Why are they so rude?” Vasalin mutters, plopping his helmet on. “If we weren't down here taking the brunt of this, they'd be overrun.”

Steve sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re insecure.”

Vasalin snorts a laugh, punching Steve’s shoulder companionably. “And the sniper rifles are just their way of compensating for something?”

Steve laughs, shaking his head. “Get outta here,” he scoffs, shoving at the other Titan playfully. Vasalin stumbles away, tipping Steve a jaunty salute as he goes. 

Steve smiles to himself even as he sobers for the upcoming fight. The Fallen have made a push to take the wall at least four times already, to no avail. Something about that makes Steve’s hair stand on end, but none of the others seem perturbed, so he continues to brush it off. Whatever their plan, the Fallen aren’t going to succeed.

* * *

“They’re gone,” Vasalin shouts through their audio link. Steve grunts, grappling a Vandal to the ground. 

“Who?” He grits through his teeth.

“The Hunters,” Vasalin says, letting go of his autorifle with one hand to jab at the wall behind them. Steve drops his knee on the Vandal’s chest to hold it steady, and drives his knuckles into its face until it stops struggling. 

He risks a glance over his shoulder to confirm Vasalin’s observation. The perch the Hunters had been using is empty. “Maybe something came up somewhere else,” Steve mutters, more charitably then he feels. 

“Or maybe they split,” Vasalin snaps, sounding angry for the first time since Steve met him a few hours ago. 

“Stop thinking about it,” a third voice cuts in. Steve peers through the press of bodies and spots the orange glint of silver armor in the afternoon sunlight. Ming-hua. “You’re a Titan. Whatever they choose to do, our place is here.”

“That’s not fair,” Vasalin grumbles, his autorifle spitting bullets into the crowd of Fallen. Steve is privately inclined to agree with him. 

“Life isn’t fair,” a new voice says. The statement is followed by the Warlock gently descending into the gap between Steve and Vasalin, a fireball building in his hand. He hurls it into the thick of the Fallen line and turns toward Vasalin with a flutter of his robes. “What made you think death would be any different?”

He trots off with his gun out, and Vasalin turns to Steve. The other Titan gestures after the Warlock, hand signals clearly demanding an explanation of what, exactly, they’d just experienced. Steve, equally as lost, simply shrugs exaggeratedly. Vasalin bursts into laughter, and Steve grins.

* * *

As night falls upon the battlefield, a restless anxiety rises up through the line. Ghosts take up positions just above their Guardian’s shoulders, casting light forward in narrow cones. The inky darkness of night is broken by muzzle flashes and superheated slugs, fire and lightning and the dusky glow of the void.

Panting, Steve reloads his scout rifle mechanically, eyes on the shadows ahead of him. He’d known the Fallen far outnumbered them, but their relentless assault is nearly overwhelming. No matter how many the Guardians put down, there are more. The Traveler glows softly behind them, but it does little to mitigate the unease that clings to all of them. Guardians, Steve thinks, are not made for the shadows. 

He hears scrabbling in the darkness and a fresh wave of adrenaline nearly bowls him over. Nothing comes slinking out of the darkness before him, but he hears nearby gunfire. He recognizes Ming-hua’s voice in a pained yelp. His feet have barely started to move toward the commotion when he hears the awful screech of armor being torn, and there’s a bright flash of blue light. It’s Ming-hua’s Ghost, wrapped in an orb of power as it works to resurrect her. 

Steve swaps his scout rifle for his shotgun and charges in, slamming bodily into the Captain responsible for Ming-hua’s current intermission. He fires two shells, point blank, into the Captain’s stomach, watching it stumble and drop dispassionately. 

He gives the Ghost a curious glance. “Why isn’t she resurrecting?” 

His Ghost shrugs its shell. “Something’s changed. We can’t resurrect immediately anymore.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Steve sighs, reaching out to Ming-hua’s Ghost to speed the process up. 

“It isn’t,” his Ghost says tightly. Ming-hua returns to the world in a flash of light and a rush of wind. Steve exchanges a short nod with her before loping back to his point. 

“What are you thinking, Ghost?” Steve asks, hoping things aren’t as ominous as his Ghost is implying. 

“I think the balance of Light and Darkness here is starting to shift to one side, and it’s not ours,” his Ghost says fretfully. 

“So,” Steve says, “don’t die?”

“It’d make my life a lot easier,” his Ghost agrees humorlessly.

* * *

Steve pounds his knuckles into the Captain’s throat viciously, caught in its hold and intent on getting to Vasalin’s Ghost to resurrect him. His Light builds just enough to shake some void down into his fist, and this time when his hand connects with the Captain’s throat, the alien goes rigid and evaporates. Its sudden disappearance makes Steve stumble, and he drops gracelessly to his knees, each harsh pant of breath sending stale heat washing over his cheeks. 

“No,” he hears Ming-hua whisper, and he turns to look at her immediately. She’s straining toward a point past Steve’s left, almost completely ignoring the Captain in front of her. It’s turned as well, watching over its shoulder, four hands loose against Ming-hua’s armor. 

An unnatural screech rises above the cacophony of war, drawing the eyes of everyone in the area. There, standing with one foot braced on Vasalin’s collapsed chest, is a Fallen Vandal. Three of its four hands jerk and shake, scrabbling at its own armor, its head tipped back to release the awful scream pausing the fight. Its fourth hand is reaching through the blue light of Vasalin’s Ghost, armor and flesh peeling away layer by layer. 

“No,” Ming-hua says again. “No!”

She tears away from the Captain before her, rushing with all the speed she can muster at the Vandal. Steve clambers to his feet, but he can’t make himself move. He watches with detached horror as the Vandal’s hand closes around the central orb of Vasalin’s Ghost. Ming-hua’s abandoned Captain makes a strange chittering sound, a laugh that sends shivers down Steve’s spine, and the Vandal, in one sharp desperate movement, crushes the orb in its hand. 

The Ghost’s blue light gutters and winks out. Steve feels it like a physical blow, reeling even as Ming-hua slams bodily into the Vandal, seconds too late. Without a Ghost, Vasalin’s soul has been cut free of its anchor, lost to death or space or time. 

A collective shudder ripples through the battlefield, not a single Guardian unaffected. Time grinds to a halt as understanding settles like a yoke around their necks. One of their own, a brother in arms, is dead. Vasalin will never rise again, will never laugh too loudly or grin crookedly. The sun has barely risen on their second day of battle, but Vasalin has been ready with a good quip or bright laugh since Steve met him. The loss is like a knife in Steve’s side. 

It’s awareness of their mortality, more than anything, that sticks in Steve’s mind. He’d forgotten death, the horror of it and the permanence, but he remembers now. It slides through him, oily and cold. Fear.

* * *

A Vandal charges him, swinging an arc covered knife with vicious aggression. The image of Vasalin’s lifeless body lying on the ground flashes through his mind, and Steve reels backwards, scrambling away from the knife. He jerks his gun up and fires, knocking the Vandal off course. He finishes it off with a punch so hard it jars his whole shoulder. 

“Shit,” Steve hisses, scrubbing his palms on his thighs. His hands are shaking. 

“It’s alright,” his Ghost soothes, only a hair’s breadth from full panic itself. “We’re alright.”

“Yeah,” Steve grunts. He’s not sure he believes it, but so long as there’s life left in him, he’ll keep fighting. 

There’s a gap in the line without Vasalin there to fill it. It’s a perfect weak spot for the Fallen to exploit, and Steve is exhausted just thinking about it. He drags himself back to his new space, nearly equidistant from Ming-hua and the Titan on his left. He hears gunshots, but they’re muffled from distance so he doesn’t worry about them much. The Pilgrim Guard is holding their side. How the other three Orders are faring is a question better left unanswered for now. 

Steve sinks to his knees, dropping his chin to his chest and staring blindly at the mud sluicing around the plasteel of his armor. He keeps one eye on his radar, but otherwise lets his mind drift. Vasalin’s death keeps playing through his mind, over and over. Was there a way to save him? How could they all have been so careless? 

What does it feel like to simply cease to exist?

No matter how he tries, he can’t remember what it felt like to die the first time. Not the recent ones -- the ones he knew he’d come back from -- but the first time, when he’d been a normal person. Had death always been such a foreboding, suffocating presence in his life then like it is now? 

There’s a rumble, distant shouts, and then the earth under his knees trembles. Groaning, Steve pushes himself to his feet. 

“Any ideas?” He grumbles to his Ghost. 

“I think,” his Ghost says slowly, almost disbelieving, “the Fallen just dropped off a Walker.”

“Great,” Steve drawls sarcastically, trotting toward the disturbance. He has to swallow his nerves when he sees the hulking, insectoid battle tank, but he straightens his spine and continues forward. All around him, Guardians begin firing on the Walker, aiming for the weak joints in its legs. 

“Hey,” Steve addresses his Ghost, taking aim at machine, “you have any big guns sitting around in storage?”

“You know, I think I might,” his Ghost muses. It clucks thoughtfully a few times before shouting with excitement. “Oh, I think you’ll really like this!” 

Steve stows his scout rifle and holds out his empty hands just in time for a machine gun at least as long as his legs to take shape from thin air. He finds himself grinning as he hefts the gun and aims it. 

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “Alright, this will do.”

The machine gun chugs to life when he pulls the trigger, spooling up and raining bullets on the Walker. The Guardians’ combined fire tears through the metal plating meant to protect the leg joint, and it’s only seconds before the thing collapses onto its belly. 

Mewling in a pathetic but intrinsically mechanical way, the Walker claws at the ground with its good legs. It churns up mud and snow alike, but can’t get its feet back under it. 

“There’s some vulnerable wiring on the top of its head,” his Ghost informs him, adding a white marker to his HUD. Steve follows the mark, tipping the nose of his gun up and pointing it toward the Walker’s soft spot. His machine gun clacks rapidly, but his bullets can’t reach anything but the thick metal plating of its neck. 

Steve stares at it thoughtfully, aware that eventually the tank will climb back to its feet and start laying fatal fire down on the Guardians swarming around it. A terrible idea begins to form in his mind. 

“Well,” Steve exhales, breathing deep and slow. He takes a running leap, boosted through the air by his Light. 

“Whatever you’re doing,” his Ghost screeches, “it’s insane!”

“Probably,” Steve shouts back, crash landing on the squirming Walker’s neck. His feet skid on the metal, but he pounds up to the marked spot on top of its head determinedly. As if aware of his plan, the Walker bucks and twists, nearly throwing him off. Steve grits his teeth and jams the muzzle of his machine gun into the exposed wiring. 

“Hope this works,” Steve mutters. 

“That’s a terrible line,” his Ghost squawks, voice high and tight. 

Steve pulls the trigger and his machine gun lurches up, bouncing and pulling at his hands. He leans into it, gritting his teeth as the stock slams into his ribs. The wiring beneath the muzzle shreds like butter under a hot knife, and the Walker releases the saddest of mechanical wails. 

In the end, it pays off. Guardians on the ground whoop and jeer as the Walker’s power core begins to whine. Steve yanks his gun free of the hole it’s created and scrambles to jump free, but he feet slip. As the power core explodes, a shredded armor plate from the machine’s thorax is launched upward. Steve sees it coming, but only has enough time to register he’s in trouble before the massive projectile clobbers him. He goes sailing, ass over teakettle through the air, and smashes into the ground so hard his vision goes black. Sound fades into the background, the gunfire and screaming Guardians like an echoey whisper on the edges of his awareness. 

He drifts, like floating on his back in warm water, comfortable and content. He forgets about the fight, about a soul raised from the dead for war, about his shield-brothers and shield-sisters struggling endlessly around him. There is nothing, in his dark quiet, and he is at peace. 

The illusion is broken when his body is jolted and pain unfurls over his scalp and zings down his spine. He groans, blinking against the black shroud over his eyes and trying with weak arms to bat at whatever has moved him. A voice burbles in the distance and Steve focuses on it through the misery. It gets clearer and clearer, like he’s underwater and pushing toward the surface. He chomps on his tongue, hoping new, fresh pain will help him push through the pounding ache in his brain. 

“-swear to fucking God, Steve,” a voice grunts. He becomes aware, all at once, that his body’s being dragged across the ground. 

“I think he’s coming around!” Another voice, high and gently synthetic, immediately recognizable. His Ghost. He blinks hard, until the shadow over his eyes begins to recede. Just a pinprick, at first, but ever widening. 

“Holy shit, you fucking dumbass,” the first voice growls. Steve’s mind sticks like jammed gears as he tries to connect the particular sound of it to a face. “Had to pick a fucking Titan, right? Self sacrificing assholes, all of you. I’m the real dumbass here.”

“Guardian!” His Ghost shouts, panicky. Steve tries to reach out and pat the cold, gray shell, but his palm swings ponderously past it. “Oh,” the Ghost blusters, “this is not good. This is definitely not good.”

“C’mon Steve,” the other voice urges desperately. “Don’t fucking die on me now. I was just starting to like you.”

His Ghost makes a fizzly whirring sound that probably means disbelief and Steve huffs a laugh. 

“Hi Guardian!” His Ghost chirrups, obviously relieved. A helmeted head pops into Steve’s line of sight, and he squints at the familiarity of it. 

“You actually awake in there?” He raps his knuckles against the front of Steve’s helmet. Steve’s brain seems to pound to the rhythm, setting his teeth on edge. He wants to tell the guy off, but he can’t remember his name. 

“Dun know yer name,” he slurs. It feels like his mouth is sliding off the side of his face. 

The guy laughs tensely. “I’ll tell you. Survive this and I’ll tell you my fucking name. That work for you?”

It’s not really what Steve was going for, but it’ll do. He nods slowly, mindful of the agony in his skull. 

“Great,” the mystery man says tersely. “Fantastic really.” 

“Wha?” Steve mumbles, confused and increasingly more aware of it. 

“You’re an idiot,” the man snaps, jabbing a finger at his face. “Shut the fuck up.”

Steve makes a quiet sound of protest, but ultimately obeys. His head hurts too much to argue. 

“Right, okay,” the other Guardian mutters to himself. “Okay.”

Steve watches with mild interest as the other Guardian takes the sniper rifle from his back and sinks to one knee. He sights an enemy quickly and pulls the trigger, the gun coughing up a bullet with a loud crack. Without fanfare, he leans into his scope and finds another. 

As Steve watches, as strange shimmer settles over the Hunter and in the blink of an eye, he’s gone. Steve pushes himself more upright, ignoring the unpleasant twinge in his neck to peer at the Hunter’s last known location. There’s another crack from the sniper rifle, and now Steve can see the telltale distortion of a cloaking field. 

“Are you invisible?” Steve yelps, grabbing at his ribs to steady the rush of pain that skitters across them. “How?”

“Patience and Time,” the Hunter replies, a laugh bubbling just under his voice. 

Steve waves a frustrated hand, wincing as it causes fresh pain to roll down his spine. “What does that mean?”

The Hunter does laugh now, a short bark of a thing, punctuated by the clap of his sniper firing. “We’ve had this conversation before, you know.”

“We have?” Steve asks slowly, pushing his sluggish mind to recall anything from before. 

The Hunter simply hums in response, so Steve lets himself drift, listening to the steady sound of the sniper rifle firing. He’s snapped out of his daze by a defiant bellow and the Hunter hissing an acidic curse. 

“Hey,” he snaps, and as he steps toward Steve, the invisibility slides off his shoulders. It comes to him like a snap of the fingers. 

“Oh,” Steve breathes. “Sarge.”

“Incredible,” Sarge mutters tightly. “I’m so proud.” 

He thrusts his sniper rifle at Steve harshly, and Steve fumbles to get his hands around it. The long, thin barrel conks into his helmet, and he grunts uncomfortably. 

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Preferably nothing,” Sarge says tightly, attention turned to a place on the field Steve can’t see from his spot sitting on his ass. “Just sit still and it’ll drop active camo on you.”

Sarge charges off then, and Steve clambers to his knees, peering down the scope after him. “Patience and Time,” he mutters, irked and worried at the same time. “Stupid gun makes him invisible.”

He manages to find Sarge through the scope of the rifle, tangled up with a group of Fallen. He’s a streak of lightning, burning Steve’s eyes, his arc blade slashing through the air and cutting the Fallen down as easy as breathing. He blazes a trail through the aliens, clearing the way to a Titan struggling on their knees against an oversized Captain. 

Sarge’s pool of Light drains and his arc blade vanishes. Steve watches him draw the short knife from his belt and leap onto the Captain’s back, slashing at its face and neck violently. Behind him, a Vandal stumbles to its feet, gripping the torn remains of its fourth arm. Steve takes a deep, slow breath and carefully aims the rifle. He squeezes the trigger gently and watches as the Vandal pirouettes and faceplants. 

Sarge’s head whips toward him and Steve grins. 

“Preferably nothing,” he snorts. Yeah, right.

* * *

Steve hasn’t felt this exhausted since before he became a Guardian. His heart is hammering and his limbs feel weak. He can’t catch his breath and his stomach is roiling. There’s panic building in his mind, a very old panic born of a body that was never quite reliable. 

He can hear Sarge panting through their audio link, too, which is a cold comfort in this unending storm of death and destruction. At least they’re both still breathing. 

A Titan bounds through the purple barrier of Steve’s latest bubble shield and into Steve’s temporary sanctuary, armor pocked and blackened with scorch marks. She starts loading shells into her shotgun with practiced nonchalance, attention clearly focused on Steve. 

“You okay kid?” She asks mildly, pumping the slide to load the chamber. 

Steve looks at her askance. “Just tired,” he gasps. 

“Right,” she nods, “happens to the best of ‘em.”

She’s not breathing hard at all. In fact, despite the obvious damage to her armor, she looks no worse for the wear. 

“How do you do it?” Steve asks, something like humor attempting to make it into his voice. The other Titan settles her shotgun across her shoulder blades and grabs the hand cannon resting in the small of her back. She pushes the cylinder open and nods, apparently satisfied with whatever she sees, and snaps the cylinder closed again. 

“Me?” She asks, more for emphasis than clarification. “I’m an Exo. Can’t run out of breath if you don’t have any lungs.”

She gives Steve a companionable slap on the back and dives back out into the fray.

* * *

Steve is exhausted and their line is too thin. The Pilgrim Guard is worn down, past skin and muscle and blood, all the way to the white of bone. Despite the conviction all his shield siblings still fight with, it’s clear they’ve all accepted the same grim truth: if things continue on as they are, all of them will die here, tonight. 

Ming-hua has pushed right, trying to cover more and more space as other Titans fall and do not resurrect. The Warlock is doing an admirable job of holding Vasalin’s space, but he cannot take the onslaught as easily as a Titan would. Steve is doing his best to support the other Guardian, one of the only non-Titans left on the field, by providing cover and taking more of the enemy’s fire. It’s added strain for Steve, still hurt from his earlier tumble and trying to make up the difference from Ming-hua’s absence. 

A beam of white light snaps past him, just missing his right shoulder. Steve startles, bringing his scout rifle around but he can’t pinpoint the sniper through all the commotion. He hears the whine of the wire rifle discharge again, just before a searing pain strikes him in the thigh. He stumbles, gritting his teeth through it, and retaliates with a couple of blind shots. 

The Vandal sniper must be aware that he’s wounded now though, because its focus on him becomes singular. Two more bolts zing toward him, splatting into the ground in front and beside him. A third is quick to follow, and this one hits square. Pain stabs through his gut, and Steve drops to the ground, teeth clenched on a groan. 

“Fucker,” Steve hisses on an exhale. 

“Steve?” Sarge gasps across the audio link. His voice sounds raw and thin, but Steve is glad to know he’s still alive, wherever he’s wandered off to. 

“Yeah, fine,” he grunts. Another slug smacks into the ground near him, from a new angle. Steve wonders absently if they’re ganging up on him in hopes of putting yet another Titan to rest. It’s not going to happen, if Steve has anything to say about it. With the ease of practice, he draws up the void energy waiting within and pushes it outwards. The perfect globe that forms takes a few pot shots from the Fallen, but holds unflinchingly. 

Being safely ensconced in his bubble gives Steve a second to recover, but it also leaves the Warlock vulnerable. Without Steve as a second target, the Fallen focus their fire on him. The Warlock moves masterfully, a graceful dance ending with several of the nearest Fallen lit aflame, but it’s not quite enough to save him from all the wire rifles pointed at him. A single slug cuts clean through his head, and the Warlock drops to the dirt like a ragdoll. 

“No,” Steve gasps, watching it all through the purple haze of his shield. Anger flows through him, overriding the shock, and he punches a fist into the ground hard enough to snap his jaw shut. “No!”

Steve knows next to nothing about him, but witnessing his death is a blow to Steve’s already weakened confidence. He’ll fight to his last breath, but no part of him sees a victory coming from this. 

“Wait Guardian,” his Ghost urges, excitement coloring its voice. “Look!”

Steve looks up just in time to watch fire erupt from the Warlock’s body. Out of the flames the Warlock rises, fire expanding from his shoulders like wings. 

“Like a phoenix,” his Ghost says, awed and amused in turn. 

Dressed in fire, the Warlock comes back at the Fallen with a vengeance. Pools of flame, like tiny suns, sprout around him, and though the Fallen shoot at him, he charges forward fearlessly. Steve watches him rampaging through the gathered aliens and feels hope rekindle in his chest. Maybe there is a chance they’ll pull through this.

* * *

“Push now,” someone screams through the dusky air. “They’re breaking!”

Shouting rises up all around him, everyone taking up the rallying cry. Off in the distant sky, a Fallen Ketch is starting its retreat, pulling away from the City. One of the other Orders has pushed them back and defended their side of the Wall. 

The Pilgrim Guard rushes forward for the first time since the battle began, days ago now. The promise of victory ushering them onward, and the bitter regret of the lives lost spurring them to greater speed. Steve races along with them, Sarge’s sniper rifle carefully strapped to his back, buoyed by adrenaline and the desperate hope that this is the end. 

Fallen scramble to board the Skiffs still waiting close to the ground, but as the Guardians draw near, the ships lift off. The Fallen left on the ground shriek and rage, but they fall quickly under the charging Guardians. The Ketch that heralded this battle pulls away. 

Steve can barely believe it. The Fallen are running, the Wall is still standing. 

They won.

* * *

The mud slurps as Sarge drops to his knees beside Steve’s prone body. Steve weakly lifts a hand, waving a limp hello. Sarge huffs a breathless laugh, folding over and bracing his forearms in the muck. 

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice as rough and tired as Steve feels. 

“Amen,” Steve grunts. “Got your gun,” he adds, wriggling his fingers until his Ghost produces the rifle from its pocket dimension. 

“Thanks,” Sarge mutters, wrapping his hands around the gun and pulling it close, nearly cradling it. 

They fall into exhausted silence, waiting with everyone else to see what will come next. Steve lets himself drowse, knowing Sarge will wake him if the Fallen have the nerve to come back. 

Time passes that way, until Steve next opens his eyes and sees the sun high in the sky. He tips his head toward Sarge. The Hunter is seated on the folded up wad of his cloak and his helmet is upside down in the mud. His chin is tipped up toward the sun, eyes closed.

“Didn’t you promise me something?” Steve teases lightly. “If I survived to the end of this?”

Sarge’s eyes flutter open, squinting against the brightness. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grunts, but there’s a tiny curl to the corner of his lips. 

“I coulda sworn you did,” Steve hums, playing along. “Right before you _threw your sniper rifle at my head_.”

“You’ve got a hard head,” Sarge snorts. “You’d already smacked it into the ground hard enough, anyway. There wasn’t anything my rifle was going to do to you that you hadn’t already done to yourself.”

Steve laughs, the sound bubbling out of him, fueled by the strength of his relief. After a moment, Sarge joins in, his laughter a quiet, shy sound compared to Steve’s own. It makes Steve wonder, in a roundabout sort of way, if Sarge is as shaken by their victory as he is. That would certainly go a ways to explaining the easy, teasing banter passing between them.

Steve sits up slowly, feeling the mud suck at his armor as he goes. He pulls his helmet off, holding it carelessly aloft until it begins to break down into packets of Light. Both of his palms are muddy, but he scrubs at his scalp anyway, shivering at the stimulation after so long without.

Art by [koreanrage](http://koreanrage.tumblr.com/post/164333111825/and-my-pieces-for-steal-the-rhythm-out-of-my-heart)

“I really thought we were done for,” he admits quietly, flicking a look toward Sarge. 

“Yeah,” Sarge sighs. “I wouldn’t have promised you anything if I knew we were both gonna survive.”

“Swear I won’t tell anyone,” Steve quips. 

“You better not,” Sarge grumbles, shoving at Steve’s shoulder lightly. Steve smiles his most innocent, genuine smile. 

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Steve vows childishly. Sarge studies him intently and Steve tries not to get too drawn into the pale blue of his eyes. 

“You really won’t tell anyone?” Sarge asks, voice small and scared. A terrible anxiety creeps into his expression, his mouth stretching flatly and eyes widening. 

“No, of course not,” Steve says hurriedly, heart twisting in his chest. “You don’t even have to tell me, really.”

“I promised I would,” Sarge replies determinedly. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply. “James,” he whispers, voice breaking. “James Barnes, but everyone called me Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Steve tries quietly. It seems right, a much better fit than James. Steve sticks out a muddy hand. “Nice to meet you, Bucky. I’m Steve Rogers.”

Bucky looks him over quickly, and a pale smile slides onto his face. “Yeah,” he says lowly, grabbing Steve’s hand. The mud squelches between their gloves grossly. “Nice to meet you, Steve.”

* * *

Steve is over the moon drifting back into the City, feet in the air and head in the clouds. The stupid smile on his face probably looks ridiculous, but how could he ever bring himself to care? Sarge has a name, a real name, and he’s been entrusted with it. They’d both survived, the City survived, and the Fallen were pushed back. Sure, Bucky had slunk off shortly after giving Steve his name, but he never stuck around long anyway. 

Steve spots Morita and Dum Dum through the thin crowd of weary Guardians and pushes toward them, ready to tease them about the secret newly in his care. Something about the bow of Dum Dum’s shoulders sends unease trickling through his stomach, and all thoughts of Bucky disappear completely. Worried, he starts running, slamming into an unsuspecting Warlock and sending them reeling. 

“Sorry,” he shouts over his shoulder, and his voice draws Dum Dum’s attention. His friend turns to look at him, and his face is wracked with devastation. Steve’s heart stutters in his chest. 

“Steve,” Morita greets him, voice flat and tight. 

“What happened?” Steve gasps, eyes searching both their faces. 

“Firebreak broke formation,” Morita says, something vaguely disapproving in his tone. 

Dum Dum huffs an unhappy laugh. “They reclaimed 5 miles of territory.”

Steve swallows hard. Dernier is part of the Firebreak Order. Steve feels the weight of understanding settle around his neck like a yoke. “But?”

“But,” Morita sighs, “they lost a lost of good people on the way.”

“Jackie,” Dum Dum chokes, voice breaking. 

“He’s dead,” Morita says. His eyes are especially bright when he finally drags them up to Steve’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL. This has been quite the journey. I hope you enjoy reading!


	2. A Titan’s Guide to Long Drops and Sudden Stops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the very bestest, my savior and sanity, my sounding board and partner in crime, [SiriusGrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiriusGrey/profile)
> 
> Title from "Black Sun on the Horizon" by Gunship.
> 
> I was lucky enough to get 2 super lovely artists for this fic, [EmeraldWolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeraldwolf/pseuds/Emeraldwolf) and [koreanrage](http://koreanrage.tumblr.com/). I'll add links to their art posts with the embedded images in the fic, so please give them some love for their awesome work! 
> 
> This fic could probably be read alone, but it'll make a whole lot more sense if you read [Part 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11156742/chapters/24896103) first.
> 
> **Glossary**
> 
> _Guardian_ : A reanimated corpse-turned-specialized soldier tasked with the defense of the last city on Earth and exploration of the lost remnants of humanity's Golden Age throughout the solar system.  
>  _Titan_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on strength and power.  
>  _Hunter_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on speed and finesse.  
>  _Warlock_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on... "space magic."  
>  _Traveler_ : A mysterious, city-sized sphere hovering close to Earth's surface which grants superhuman abilities to Guardians.  
>  _Ghost_ : A levitating artificial intelligence used by Guardians.  
>  _HUD_ : "Heads Up Display"  
>  _Fireteam_ : A small squad composed of 2 to 6 Guardians.  
>  _Cosmodrome_ : A shipyard located in Old Russia that once served as a vital link to space.

_This much fun should be outlawed._  
— Description on the scout rifle _Zero Point LOTP_

* * *

“Hey Steve-o,” Dum Dum hollers over the hustle and bustle of busy workers going about their business in the crowded corridor. Steve stretches up to peer over their heads, grinning at Dum Dum’s arm flailing through the air to catch his attention. Carefully, Steve pushes through the crowd, mindful of the delicate civilians in his path. Dum Dum greets him with a rough hug, slapping his back merrily, before dropping an arm over his shoulder and leading him away. 

“So, Steve,” Dum Dum bellows jovially, turning heads as they walk. “You done anything fun lately?”

“I’ve been out a few times,” Steve shrugs, “but nothing too noteworthy.”

“The Pilgrim Guard has all the fun,” Dum Dum sighs dramatically. 

Steve shrugs again, unwilling to talk about his recent sojourns out into the wild. Others from his order may have returned with wanderers safe in hand, but Steve certainly hadn’t. 

“Well Stoneborn has been busy too,” Dum Dum announces grandly, puffing up with pride. 

“I saw the towers,” Steve agrees. “They look pretty close to finished.”

“They are,” Dum Dum nods. “They’ll be ready for move-in day in no time.”

It makes Steve smile, how proud he sounds. 

“Which tower did you work on?”

“Well, a bit on the one over that way,” Dum Dum says, spinning as they walk to point off over Steve’s right shoulder. “And,” he hums, turning to face forward again, and gesturing at the white silhouette of the tower looming over them, “this one too.”

“Opposite sides of the City,” Steve teases, one eyebrow raised in question. 

Dum Dum shrugs, spinning around again, so he’s facing forward. “I go where they tell me to go.”

Steve nods easily. “Well, they both look great.” 

“That one,” Dum Dum says, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the tower behind them, “is probably going to be the command tower, or some shit.”

“And the rest of them?” Steve asks.

“Just whatever, for the moment,” Dum Dum shrugs. “Some gun manufacturers were sniffing around for a place to set up shop and a faction or two from the City was hoping to get a foothold.”

“Right, that’s just what we need,” Steve sighs, following Dum Dum around a corner and into a room filled with shadows. “Factions fighting over--”

He’s cut off by a crowd of voices. Shouts of “surprise!” and “happy birthday!” fill the room. Steve blinks dumbly at the people milling around the room. 

“It’s not my birthday,” Steve denies, looking to Dum Dum for help. 

“Steve, my boy,” Dum Dum laughs, dropping his arm over Steve’s shoulder and pulling him in close. “Today, you’re a year old.”

After that, Steve doesn’t get another word in edgewise. Instead, he’s pulled into rowdy hugs, jovial claps on the back, polite congratulations, and a couple rude gestures performed with a wink and a smile. It’s all a bit much for Steve, who barely recognizes any of the party goers, but he tries to take it all in stride. If nothing else, he’s touched his friends would go to such levels just for him. 

Dernier’s death at Six Fronts had hit all of them hard, but Steve had barely known him. No, what’d hit Steve was the way Dum Dum pushed him away, how withdrawn Gabe had grown, Jim up and vanishing one night, and Monty’s hard silences and cold stares. Despite telling himself they were grieving, it’d still stung to have such clear evidence that he was still an outsider in the group. 

Dum Dum drags Steve through the mingling Guardians to a round table in the back of the room. A ring of familiar faces greet him and Steve finds himself grinning wide, dark musings forgotten. 

“Happy birthday, ya tosser,” Monty laughs, toasting Steve with a cup of dark liquid. Dum Dum pushes Steve none too gently into the spot between Peggy and Gabe, before taking the last empty seat next to Monty. 

“Thank you,” Steve smiles. “I didn’t even realize it’d been a whole year already.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” Jim mumbles around a cigarette. Someone’s Ghost starts projecting a song, and other Ghosts pick it up until the whole room is filled with music.

“Wasn’t any trouble, anyway,” Gabe laughs, gesturing at the crowd beginning to dance. “You know how much Guardians love a party.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen your moves, Steve,” Dum Dum says promptingly. Monty leans forward, a darkly mischievous smile pulling across his face.

“Yes, you’ll have to _break it down_ for us,” he says, carefully enunciating each word. 

“You want me to dance?” Steve asks, eyebrows lifting with surprise. Everyone around the table favors him with a wicked smile, each with varying degrees of sadistic pleasure. Cold dread settles deep in Steve’s chest. “I can’t dance!”

“Oh darling,” Peggy says consolingly, reaching out to pat his hand gently. 

“That was the wrong thing to say,” Jim nods, favoring Steve with an amused smirk.

“Steve-o, I’m sorry,” Dum Dum says solemnly, “but you can’t be a Titan if you can’t dance.”

Dum Dum climbs to his feet, Gabe just behind him. “It’s true,” he tells Steve apologetically, but there’s no sorrow in the way he grabs ahold of Steve’s arm and levers him upright. Strung up between two of his closest friends, Steve can do no more than cast a pitiable look at the remaining attendees at the table. 

Monty is absolutely cackling, drink spilling over the rim of his cup with the force of his trembling. Jim gives him a firm salute that does not help in the slightest. Peggy offers a thumbs up and a smile, which would probably make him feel better if she didn’t look a second away from bursting into laughter. 

Steve, with all the pleasure of a man going to his own execution, allows himself to be dragged to the fringes of the makeshift dance floor. Gabe immediately begins dancing, knees bent and body lowered, arms pumping to a rhythm Steve can’t discern. Dum Dum’s dance is more exuberant, arms in the air and feet barely on the ground. It should look stupid, but Dum Dum’s big grin just makes it look like fun. 

On the other hand, Steve just feel outs of place, awkward and ungainly. Watching everyone else move with such simple joy makes Steve’s stiff discomfort blatant, and his shoulders hunch up around his ears as he tries to sink as low into himself as he can. Even with his friends cajoling him, Steve only manages a weak shuffle from foot to foot. 

Around about the time Steve starts considering the option of shooting himself as a sound tactical retreat, his saving grace appears. As soon as Bucky steps foot into the room, all the attention that had been on Steve, suddenly isn’t. His arrival is shocking enough to draw Monty, Jim, and Peggy out of their seats, and Steve uses the commotion to make his escape. With a silent apology to Bucky for leaving him to the wolves, Steve slinks off the dance floor and into a shadowy corner to hide. 

His new position affords him an excellent view of the Hunter, who submits to a few friendly pats on the shoulder and a punch in the bicep from Dum Dum that hurts more than Bucky lets on. Steve knows - he’s been on the receiving end before. It’s good to see Bucky again, though, and willingly mixing with so many people. Bucky sightings after Six Fronts had been rare, at best, and Steve isn’t too proud to admit he’d spent a few restless nights worrying about where he’d gone. 

Shopping, apparently, Steve thinks. The bulky, bland cloak Bucky had always worn before is gone, replaced by a deep navy one with white streaked down the middle. This one is cut narrow at the shoulders and wide at the heels, and it sways just a hair from the ground as Bucky’s weight shifts. And when Bucky turns toward him, that’s when Steve notices all his friends staring at him. 

Smiling sheepishly, Steve waggles his fingers at them. Dum Dum scoffs with the sort of fond disappointment of a parent whose child refuses to reach for their own potential, but he makes no effort to draw Steve back onto the floor. Instead, Bucky breaks from the group, with an elegance that makes Steve’s stomach flip, and prowls to the corner. 

“Happy birthday,” he says flatly, coming to a stop in front of Steve. 

“Thanks,” Steve grins. “I just turned 1.”

“Ridiculous,” Bucky sneers benignly. 

Steve shrugs good naturedly and grabs the edge of Bucky’s hood between his thumb and index finger. “This is new.”

“Yeah,” Bucky grunts, lowering his chin and folding his arms over his chest. He flicks his fingers at the mark hanging down Steve’s right thigh. “You got a new one after Six Fronts, so…”

Steve smiles, surreptitiously running his palm over the cloth at his hip. The Mark of Six Fronts is light gray, with thin white lines cutting it into a pattern of rhombuses. The bottom 10 inches are black save for a white hexagon split into 4 pieces, 2 triangles and 2 bigger rhombuses. Six fronts, and the 4 Orders that held them. Steve would be lying if he said the mark wasn’t a source of pride for him. 

“So, don’t take this the wrong way,” Steve says lightly, “but why are you here?”

“I could sense how close you were to actually trying to dance,” Bucky says seriously, “and I feared for the safety and wellbeing of everyone else here.”

“Hey!” Steve cries through a strangled laugh. He shoves at Bucky’s shoulder playfully and the Hunter sways loosely. “You jerk.”

“Mhmm,” Bucky hums. “You looked like you wanted to melt into the floor so you should be thanking me for saving you.”

Steve dips his chin and bites his lip to stop the pleased smile trying to stretch across his mouth. “Thanks,” he murmurs. 

“Sure,” Bucky responds, just as softly. They settle into silence, leaning back against the wall so close together their elbows brush when they inhale. 

Steve watches his friends dancing, heart lifted for all their easy joy. The Titans are circled up, shouting jeers and encouragements at each other as they try different, and increasingly sillier, dance moves out. They move to their own rhythm, unconcerned by the slow beat of the current song. 

Peggy is twirling around on the makeshift dancefloor, laughing and clapping along with some of the other Guardians who’ve joined in. She swings around, ducking behind an Awoken woman’s elegant motions and an Exo man jokingly doing the robot. It takes her out of Steve’s line of sight, but he can still spot the occasional flash of the cardinal red of her cloak. He feels Bucky’s attention settle on his profile like a physical weight, but Steve finds he’s just as happy watching Peggy for the moment.

She sashays through the crowd, parting the dancers with easy grace, and steps to a point almost directly in front of Steve. She smiles at him when she notices him watching, and waggles her fingers in greeting. He feels clumsy and oafish in comparison when he waves back, but the brilliance of her smile erases much of the embarrassment. 

At least until Bucky plants a boot on the back of his leg and buckles his knee. Catching himself, Steve whirls, face hot. 

“What?” He snaps, not really angry but too flustered to keep himself in check. 

“If you like her so much,” Bucky grumbles, “you should go dance with her.”

“I don’t,” Steve stutters, “that’s not.”

Bucky folds his arms over his chest, clearly unimpressed. 

“I can’t dance,” Steve yelps. “You said so yourself.” 

“Anyone can dance,” Bucky snorts. “It’s not about the steps.”

“The steps are 90% of it, at least,” Steve argues, flushed with a mix of excitement and embarrassment. 

“No,” Bucky grits out, jabbing his finger into the hard armor on Steve’s chest. “With the right partner, it’s easy.”

“Sure it is,” Steve growls, unsure of why he feels so very defensive about this. 

“Fine, don’t dance with her,” Bucky snarls, low and quiet. “But don’t stand near me if you’re going to drool over her.”

Steve rears back like he’s been slapped. “I wasn’t _drooling_ ,” Steve grits out, though he suddenly feels the need to wipe his mouth, just to be sure. “What’s your problem, Bucky?”

“Shut up,” Bucky snaps, cold. Steve lurches back a step. He gapes, angry and confused and underneath that, hurt. Somehow he’d forgotten how much talking to Bucky could be like walking through a minefield. 

Before Steve can open his mouth and ratchet the tension up even higher, a heavy hand settles on his shoulder. He wheels, startled, and comes face to face with Dum Dum, smile sliding off his face as his eyes flick between them. 

“Everything alright?” Dum Dum asks, carefully neutral. 

“Just grand,” Steve chirps obnoxiously, at the same time Bucky barks, “peachy.”

“Right,” Dum Dum says slowly, watching Steve’s face closely. “Well, Monty and Jimmy are taking a breather and Gabe’s off to woo Peg, so I’m in need of a partner.”

Steve rises on tiptoe to peer over Dum Dum’s shoulders, spotting Gabe and Peggy spinning around together, laughing brightly. Steve drops to the flat of his feet, hyper aware of Bucky at his side. He feels especially abashed, but can’t explain why. 

“Uh, I guess,” Steve stumbles. He looks to Bucky, for help or assurance he isn’t sure. 

“He’s all yours,” Bucky mutters, shrugging eloquently. 

Dum Dum whoops and hauls Steve forward, back to the dance floor and away from Bucky. Steve goes limply, exhausted from this emotional whiplash. Steve turns to look for the Hunter when they come to a stop, but Bucky is nowhere to be seen.

* * *

“All the way to the Steppes?” Steve whines, imagining the distance between here and there. 

“Jesus, listen to you,” Bucky chuckles. “I’m always hearing about how noble and stalwart Titans are, but here you are complaining about traveling a couple miles.”

“But we were just there,” Steve pouts. “It’s so inefficient to send us back now.”

Bucky shakes his head. “We don’t even have to walk anymore. Hunters,” Bucky says, pressing his fingertips to his chest demonstratively, “see the opportunity to install a vehicle grid, we take it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve huffs, flapping his hand at Bucky dismissively, “tell me about it next time you’re lounging around in the City enjoying your favorite spicy noodles.”

“Uh huh,” Bucky grunts, sounding amused. “Titans are going to hold that over the rest of us for ever.”

“Yep,” Steve chirps obnoxiously.

“Even though you personally didn’t have any part in building anything?” Bucky wheedles. 

“You didn’t personally install the vehicle grid,” Steve retorts. 

“True enough,” Bucky agrees magnanimously. He extends a hand, and his Ghost wooshes into existence, looking up at him expectantly. After a moment, it disappears, and across the ground near Bucky’s feet, a long, sleek hoverbike appears. Bucky straddles the seat and the Sparrow rises as he touches the controls. He tosses a look over his shoulder. “You coming?”

Steve doesn’t even have to vocalize his request before his Ghost brings his Sparrow into the world. As Steve is settling onto the seat, Bucky’s sparrow squeaks a rubbery sounding honk. Steve looks up, torn between laughter and annoyance.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” Bucky snickers. “Race you.”

He’s off like a rocket, not even waiting for Steve to agree. Steve jams his foot into the accelerator and leans into the body of the bike. Wind whistles over the grooves of his helmet and snowy scrub brush flattens to the ground in his wake. Ahead of him, Bucky’s Sparrow sways side to side casually, dipping over a puddle of icy water and sending up a fine spray. 

“You’re a jerk,” Steve shouts, knowing his Ghost will pass the message along. All he gets in response is a peal of laughter and a thumbs up over Bucky’s right shoulder. 

They fly over the snow-capped hills, rushing to the peak and sailing clear over the valleys between. The path out of the Grottos cuts under a natural rock formation, squeezing down into a narrow single person path. In his haste to catch up, Steve sideswipes the wall a couple times. It bangs his knee up pretty good, and though it makes his Sparrow belch black smoke, he doesn’t stop. 

The path deposits them on shoreline of an abandoned bay, beached ships lying broken across the ground. Bucky swings right around one of the ships, skimming over the shallow water, but Steve hangs left, anticipating the turn that will take them away from the Forgotten Shore. As they clear the ship, the front fork of Steve’s Sparrow brushes the tail end of Bucky’s. 

“I caught you,” Steve yells triumphantly, leaning into the corner. The path to the Mothyards is a deep canyon, high walls of rock on both sides and a river meandering along the bottom. Steve doesn’t try to follow the worn, dirt path crisscrossing the water, choosing instead to following the river. 

“Still a ways to go,” Bucky returns, cutting his Sparrow sharply so a sheet of mist cascades over Steve. 

They careen through the gully, crossing each other’s paths and shouting playful insults as they do. Following the river, Steve manages to pull ahead of Bucky a few times, but as they burst out into the Mothyards, they’re neck and neck.

Here the snow-covered terrain is littered with the gutted hulls of massive airplanes, broken and sagging. There’s a group of Fallen, a simple patrol unit, loitering on the clearest path through the area. They could bowl through the aliens, but Steve’s Sparrow is already damaged and the slightest bump might have it exploding under him. 

Bucky takes his Sparrow left, off the beaten path and up to high ground. Steve follows, for lack of a better idea, although there’s a plane stretched across all but the thinnest of gaps between it and a steep rock wall. Bucky carefully tips his bike to the left, clearly aligning himself. Steve has to lean nearly off the side of his Sparrow to see what’s coming up ahead of them, but once he does, he realizes exactly what Bucky’s planning to do.

The airplane’s wing is busted close to the body of the plane, with the tip of it touching the ground. It makes for a perfect ramp. With a wild laugh, Steve tilts his Sparrow until he’s almost perfectly behind Bucky, and the two of them lurch up the length of the wing. Bucky flies off the opposite side, slipping his feet free of the pedals and kicking his heels together with a yelp of a laugh. He lands in a perfect little dip between two buildings and skids sharply left to follow the path down the hill and into the Steppes. 

Steve isn’t so lucky. He lands hard on an uneven patch of ground and his Sparrow bottoms out. He hears the engine spool up and leaps off, hitting the ground at a full sprint. Behind him, the bike bursts into flames and, seconds later, explodes. Steve slows to a jog, then a halt, turning to frown at the charred remains of his Sparrow.

“Well,” his Ghost says briskly, appearing before him. “Shall we try that again?”

“I’m going to have to practice,” Steve huffs, watching as his Sparrow, undamaged and shiny new, materializes at his feet. 

“It couldn’t hurt,” his Ghost chirps, before vanishing back to its pocket dimension. 

Steve climbs onto his new Sparrow and guides it down the path. He knows he’s not going to win now, so he takes his time. He finds Bucky waiting for him on the last remnants of a highway overpass, seated on the edge and kicking his heels against the concrete impatiently. 

“Didja get lost?” Bucky drawls. 

Steve steps off his bike and shrugs grandly. “Blew up my Sparrow.”

“I was going to console you on your loss,” Bucky snorts, “but that’s just sad.”

“Aw, shut up,” Steve whines, slinking under the overpass and toward their objective.

Bucky drops down behind him, and trots up to throw an arm over his shoulders. “Don’t worry, bud,” he says cheerily, “you can try again next time.”

* * *

“Alright, alright,” Gabe laughs, “let me show you fellas how it’s done.”

He pats his fusion rifle lovingly as he steps toward the pair of void bubbles. They’ve been placed close together, so they’re overlapping, and the pocket their overlap creates is just wide enough for a person to stand in. Gabe takes his position in the middle of the tiny space and aims his rifle at the farthest wall. The fusion rifle spools up and launches a super heated slug at the wall. The slugs smacks into the void wall and deflects back, barely missing Gabe and slamming into a wall behind him.

The slug ricochets around the small space, leaving a streak of bright color behind it as it goes. Every time it comes close to hitting Gabe, Steve winces uncontrollably. Bucky shifts beside him.

“Saladin would be so disappointed in all of you,” Bucky mutters lowly. 

“ _I’m_ disappointed in all of us,” Steve sighs, hissing when Gabe’s second fusion rifle shot catches him right in the shoulder. A cheer rises from the rest of the peanut gallery as Gabe melts in a silvery blue haze, and Steve groans dramatically. “Why are we doing this again?” Steve asks, voice raised over the commotion. 

“It’s bubble roulette, Steve,” Gabe admonishes, still suspended off the ground from his new resurrection. 

“It’s like a Venn diagram of stupidity,” Bucky grumbles. Steve snickers beside him. 

“Now, now boys,” Dum Dum says. “This is a test. It’s no laughing matter.”

“Really?” Bucky asks flatly. “What are you testing?”

“Bravery,” Dum Dum announces, striking a proud pose. 

“Right,” Bucky says slowly. 

“I’m just here to laugh at these fools getting themselves killed,” Jim shrugs. 

“Aw, Jim,” Dum Dum moans, collapsing like he’s wounded. “Jimmy, say it ain’t so.”

“Well, I’m fairly certain he just volunteered to be our next contestant,” Monty says, gleefully taking Morita by the shoulder and pushing him toward the pair of bubbles. 

“Ugh,” Steve grunts, “we should leave.”

“I dunno,” Bucky hums, folding his arms over his chest. “I think I wanna see this.”

Steve plants his hands on his hips and turns to Bucky demandingly.

“It’s like a nature documentary,” Bucky says innocently. “Observe the Titans in their natural habitat.”

Bucky makes a sweeping motion that encompasses both the spectators and the void bubbles. Steve chokes back a laugh and draws up all the indignation he can muster. “Hey,” he growls, trying for intimidating to marginal success, “don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

Bucky jams a finger right into his visor. “So you’re defending this idiocy now?”

“Solidarity,” Steve shrugs, “or something.”

“Or something,” Bucky repeats, humor coloring his voice. He turns to watch Jim gamble with his life, fingertips tapping restlessly on his bicep. Steve watches him surreptitiously, warmed by Bucky’s fidgety habit. 

“That’s 4,” Morita shouts, holding aloft his fusion rifle. “One more and I’m the world champion.”

“Now he’s definitely going to die,” Gabe comments. Dum Dum nods solemnly beside him. 

They watch, Steve with bated breath, as Jim fires off the last shot. It zings around the tight space almost comically, then plants itself right in the center of Morita’s back. 

“God damn it,” Jim snarls when he resurrects, crossing his arms with sharp movements. 

“Oh, now he’s pouting,” Monty sighs. 

“Yep,” Gabe agrees, after a quick inspection of the blank face of Morita’s visor, “that’s definitely his pouting face.”

“Screw you guys,” Jim grunts. “I’m still winning.”

“The current standings,” Dum Dum announces grandly, “Jimmy with 4 shots, myself with 3--” 

Monty raises his fist to the mouth of his visor and coughs “cheater” at Dum Dum’s back.

“--and Gabe with 1,” Dum Dum continues, unperturbed. He casts a look around the room. “Who’s next?”

Steve looks to Monty. Monty looks to Steve. Slowly, Steve shakes his head, trying to will Monty to volunteer with nothing but the power of his desire not to partake in bubble roulette. 

“I think St--” Monty starts. 

“I’ll give it a try,” Bucky interrupts, stepping forward. 

“I’m sorry Sarge, but this is a Titan only sport,” Dum Dum says firmly. “If you can’t make a bubble, you can’t play bubble roulette.”

“I’m sure two of you can donate bubbles to the cause,” Bucky snorts derisively. His helmet tips toward Steve, who sighs dramatically. 

“Yes, I can drop a bubble for you.”

“Well, I’d like to see this,” Monty says, clapping his hands together. “I’ll make a bubble for you, as well.”

Bucky sets his hands on his hips, radiating self-satisfaction, and Dum Dum sighs heavily. 

“Fine, but only because I like you, Sarge,” Dum Dum agrees reluctantly. 

Bucky snaps a jaunty two-fingered salute his way, and then Steve and Monty head to a clear area to create two fresh bubbles. Bucky holds both hands out, and a stout, snub-nosed gun appears in them. He saunters into the small overlap between the two bubbles and raises his fusion rifle. It charges purple, void powered, and belches a molten slug into the wall. 

Bucky doesn’t even flinch as the projectile bounces around the tiny space, zipping past him and rebounding off the wall. It finally splats into the ground, sizzling. Steve bites back a grin, trying to keep his obvious bias hidden from his fellow Titans. Not because they’ll actually care, but the teasing will be unbearable if he gets caught. 

Shot after shot, Bucky stands steady as the molten slugs zing around him. The closer he gets to successfully surviving an entire clip, the harder Steve’s heart beats. He should probably be conflicted, seeing a Hunter well on his way to winning an inherently Titan game, but it’s _Bucky_. If he wins, it would feel almost as good as Steve himself winning. 

“Last one,” Monty comments as Bucky’s rifle charges up for the fifth time. He looks to Morita. “If he gets this one, he wins.”

“You and Steve haven’t gone yet,” Dum Dum points out. He’s clearly the most distressed by Bucky’s success. 

Bucky’s last shot fires and he lowers his gun, feet firmly planted as the projectile bounces around inside the void pocket. Steve can’t hide his smile as the slug misses Bucky every time, and then fizzles out. Bucky turns to them, one hand on his hip and gun raised so the barrel rests against his shoulder. 

“That smug motherfucker,” Gabe laughs. 

“ _Hunters_ ,” Dum Dum grouses, tossing his hands in the air, but doing little to hide the admiring smirk tucked into the corner of his mouth. 

Bucky steps out of the void shields, brushing imaginary dirt from his hands, all relaxed, exaggerated swagger. “Well, that was easy,” he declares, hip cocked and head tilted. His face may be hidden, but everything about his body screams smugness. 

His announcement sends the other Titans into a tizzy, shouting jeers and accusations, all tempered by the undercurrent of good humor. While they’re distracted, Bucky turns his head, just enough for Steve to know he’s looking his way. Surreptitiously, because he still doesn’t want to get teased for liking Bucky better than his Titan brothers, Steve gives him a thumbs up. 

Bucky bursts into laughter, bright and joyous. It silences the other Titans, who have probably never had the opportunity to hear him so uncomplicatedly happy, but is sends a thrill through Steve. His stomach swoops, his heart thunders, and warmth suffuses him. 

Steve wants to go over there and hug him. Pick him up and swing him around until he’s breathless with laughter. He wants to kiss him. 

“Shit,” Steve whispers, still smiling.

* * *

Steve doesn’t manage to stumble his way out of the crowd until the moon is properly overhead, barely dodging a fresh chorus of “happy birthday”s and another round of well meaning slaps to the back. He’s about to make a break for it, all partied out and ready to curl up somewhere quiet, when a calm voice draws him back around. 

“Leaving already?”

Steve squints through the dark, finding Morita leaning against the wall just outside the door. “Yeah,” Steve shrugs. “Just tired.”

“Wow,” Jim says lowly, chuckling. “Turning into an old man already.”

“I’m only 17!” Steve complains. 

“Seventeen,” Jim muses quietly. “Jesus, it’s been a long time already.”

“Yeah,” Steve exhales, tipping his head back and looking up at the sky. His eyes are unerringly drawn to the Traveler’s pale, tattered skin. Seventeen years because of that thing, and all of them filled to the brim with war and pain and struggle. 

“Well, we’ve had some good times so far,” Jim hums. Steve nods. He’s got the best friends any undead super soldier could ever ask for, that’s for sure. “And still a ways to go,” Jim continues, clapping his hands together briskly. “Have a good night, Steve.”

“You too,” Steve replies automatically, dropping his eyes to the other man and giving a little wave. He scuffs his feet as he heads off, meandering aimlessly through the nighttime quiet corridors of the tower. Even this late, Guardians are everywhere. Some strolling casually, some standing in small groups, catching up with old friends. Others hustle through the halls, Ghosts at their side as they discuss an upcoming mission. 

There are, Steve notes, more Hunters awake than the other classes of Guardian. It’s not surprising, exactly. Hunters, for all their affected air of disrespect and disregard, always seem to be the most deeply troubled by the state of the galaxy. For all that Warlocks try to sell themselves as the most profoundly connected to the void, it’s Hunters who can’t sleep at night for all the terrible secrets the Darkness holds. 

And then there are Titans, who don’t even try to understand the void. 

“Think there’s a reason for that?” Steve asks aloud. His Ghost appears with a fizzling sound. 

“You know,” the AI says flatly, “our neural symbiosis is pretty advanced, but that doesn’t mean I actually know _everything_ you’re thinking.”

“I’m not sure I like the idea of you reading my mind anyway,” Steve frowns. 

“If you can’t trust me with all your thoughts, who can you trust?” His Ghost teases, making Steve smile. “What were you wondering about?”

“Warlocks want to understand the Darkness, Hunters are afraid of it, but Titans don’t seem to care one way or another,” Steve summarizes. 

“You probably have a better understanding of the reasons that’d be true than I do,” his Ghost replies. “Why don’t _you_ want to know the Darkness better?”

Steve hums thoughtfully, sifting through his motivations carefully. “I guess,” he mumbles hesitantly, “it doesn’t matter what the Darkness is, or what it can do to me. I’m here to stop it from destroying everything, so that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Well,” his Ghost chirps, “I can’t speak for any other Titans, but I’d bet most of them feel the same as you do.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Steve mutters, turning the matter over in his mind. He ambles distractedly deeper into the center of the tower, further from the more populated areas and into the poorly lit, less traveled halls. 

“Hey,” a voice says from the shadows, and Steve startles violently, wheeling toward the sound. 

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve gasps loudly, and realizing what he’s done, claps his hand over his mouth. He doesn’t see any one immediately around them, but that doesn’t mean no one’s there. Bucky glides out of the dark like he’s a part of it himself, arms folded over his chest. There’s a jaunty angle to his shoulders that tells Steve he’s not upset about the slip. He may, in fact, be amused instead. 

“I hear it’s your birthday,” Bucky says. 

“Yeah,” Steve shrugs, nonchalant. He doesn’t much care about it, but the fact that Bucky remembered and is _here_ means the world to Steve. He clamps down on the pleasant butterflies in his stomach and bites his lip. 

“Sorry I missed your party.” Bucky’s fingers tap-tap-tap against his bicep. 

“It’s still going if you want to take part,” Steve smirks, gesturing the way he’d come. 

Bucky laughs, and his arms drop from their defensive cross. “Nah, I’ve got something for you.”

“For me?” Steve jokes, pressing his fingertips to his chest, heavy thoughts about his place in the world carelessly swept aside in the face of Bucky’s appearance. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Shut up, you fool,” Bucky snorts fondly, reaching out to snag Steve’s forearm and tugging him down a hallway. When it’s clear that Steve is following, Bucky lets go, and Steve tries not to be disappointed. 

Bucky leads him through a labyrinth of turns, up and down stairways, and into a room stacked high with pallets. 

“Wow, Buck,” Steve drawls, “this is really something. I’m so touched.”

“God, do you ever stop?” Bucky complains, clambering up one of the stacked pallets and crouching to look over his shoulder at Steve. 

“Not really,” Steve shrugs. 

Bucky sighs heavily, but gestures for Steve to follow him anyway. 

“What?” Steve laughs, disbelievingly. He climbs up behind the Hunter, careful not to step on the ends of his cloak where it’s pooled at his ankles. Bucky’s Ghost appears then, directing a beam of light down the backside of the pallet. Steve braces himself against Bucky’s shoulder to peer down, where a single metal grate is barely attached to the wall. 

Bucky slides down between the wall and the pallet, shimmying a bit to fit, and removes the grate. With the vent uncovered, Bucky squeezes in and disappears, only the quiet sound of his steps drifting back. 

“I’m never going to fit through there,” Steve mutters, but he slips down the pallet without hesitation. Crouching as low as he can, Steve shuffles into the vent, wincing as the bulky shoulders of his armor scrape against the sides. There’s not enough resistance to stop him, though, so he keeps going until the vent opens into another room. 

This one is lit by a single lamp, casting a warm orange light throughout. There’s nothing especially extraordinary about the room. It’s small and clean, with a workbench covered in gun parts and a pile of pillows in the corner. Bucky is standing in the middle of the room, helmet off and expression pinched, fingers tapping restlessly against his hip. 

“What is this?” Steve asks, gesturing to the room around them. It doesn’t seem to have any entrances besides the vent. 

Bucky makes a face, like he can’t believe Steve could be so insensitive as to ask. “It’s mine,” he grumbles, looking anywhere but at Steve. 

“Oh,” Steve grunts, surprised. He casts another look around the room, saddened by the bareness and isolation of it all but touched that Bucky is sharing it with him anyway. He smiles. “How did you even find this?”

Bucky shrugs evasively. “It’s not on the tower’s blueprints.”

“So you just stumbled across it?” Steve chuckles. 

“Sort of,” Bucky grunts, turning toward the work bench. He shuffles parts around uselessly, and Steve lets him. If he needs the time to compose himself, Steve is happy to give it to him. He studies the fine articulation of his armor on the back of his hand, picking at an invisible spot of dirt intently. 

“Here,” Bucky gets his attention. Steve turns to get a bundle shoved into his arms. With more care than it might warrant, Steve unfolds the cloth to reveal a sturdy scout rifle. “It’s a good one,” Bucky mutters quickly. “Decent rate of fire, high impact, low recoil, big magazine. Everything you could ever want.”

Steve brushes his fingers over the dark metal reverently. “It’s perfect,” he declares. “Thank you, Bucky.”

Bucky scowls. “You can’t tell me it’s perfect before you even use it.”

“Bucky,” Steve insists firmly. “It’s perfect.”

Bucky crosses his arms with a huff, but Steve doesn’t miss the shy, pleased smile that crosses his face when he looks away. “Whatever,” he grumbles. “Happy birthday.”

Steve smiles softly, stroking the gun. Happy birthday, indeed.

* * *

Steve stows his rifle and drops to all fours, leaning as far over the edge as he dares. He squints, straining his eyes against the glare off the snow. There, far down the sheer cliff face, far enough that the drop would leave him dead and waiting for his Ghost to revive him, is a tiny platform reaching out from what appears to be a cave set into the rock wall. 

“Do you see that?” he murmurs to his Ghost, but the answer he gets is a swift kick in the rear that sends him sprawling flat to his belly to keep from tipping over the edge. 

“I see an idiot trying to fall off a cliff,” a voice behind him replies. Steve grins, rolling onto his back and sitting up to look at the Hunter standing with folded arms. 

“Bucky!” Steve cries, relief and pleasure surging through him to see his friend again, coupled with a deep irritation born of fear and loneliness. 

“Hey,” Bucky answers casually, stepping forward and crouching to peek over the ledge. “What are you doing?”

“The Vanguard said to keep an eye out for dead Ghosts and they keep turning up in the weirdest places,” Steve says, waving his hand at the drop behind him. “I think there’s a cave down there, so I wanted to check.”

Bucky rocks his weight from the balls of his feet firmly to his heels, in a position Steve doesn’t think he could ever hold.

“So dead Ghosts are commonplace now?” Bucky asks easily, but there’s a note of anger in his voice. 

“Some of them are Ghosts who never found their Guardian,” Steve says, trying to be appeasing. He lets his head roll on his neck so he’s turned toward Bucky. Bucky’s head is tipped back. “The rest… Their Guardians are dead.”

“And a lot of them are turning up in weird places on the Cosmodrome, huh?” Bucky inclines his head toward Steve.

“It’s almost like they’re trying to get back to the Tower, but they never seem to make it.”

Bucky lets his feet slip out from under him, plunking into the snow shoulder to shoulder with Steve. “You ever seen a Ghost that lost its Guardian?”

“Not really,” Steve says after a moment of thought. Bucky pulls his knees to his chest, looping his arms around his shins. His armor scrapes together with a sick squeal. 

“It’s like… They forget how to fly. They get all awkward, flying into things and shit. And they’ll stop if you talk to ‘em, but they just… Drift off mid-word.” Bucky bumps their shoulders together lightly. “I guess it’s kinda like shell shock, maybe.” 

“Do any of them ever make it back?” Steve asks, feeling a strange sort of sympathy for the Ghosts mourning their lost Guardians. 

“You spend more time on the Tower than I do,” Bucky shrugs. 

“I wonder what happens to the ones that do make it back,” Steve murmurs. 

“Who cares,” Bucky scoffs, digging his heels into the frozen earth. Steve elbows him hard enough to sting. 

“I do,” he grouses. Bucky snorts, shaking his head.

“Yeah, of course you do.”

They sit silently for a while, Bucky looking over the cliff edge and Steve staring up at the wall protecting the City. He’s seen Ghosts destroyed, and their Guardians suddenly left mortal for it, but for all the Guardians who died at Six Fronts, he’s never actually seen any of the Ghosts left behind. He’d hoped they didn’t suffer the loss of their Guardian as acutely as Guardians seem to feel the loss of their Ghosts, but Bucky’s description doesn’t bode well. 

Steve tips a look at Bucky from the corner of his eye. The Hunter has a new cloak, more shapely and made of a thicker material than the last one. His head is lowered, almost to his knees, and he’s digging his heel into the snow. Steve smiles to himself and bumps their shoulders together. Bucky may play tough, but he’s probably more upset about dead Ghosts turning up than anyone else in Old Russia. 

“Alright, my ass is gonna freeze off,” Bucky whines, breaking the silence. “Have I been sufficiently punished for my shitty attitude?”

Steve tosses his head back and laughs, accidentally jostling Bucky as he does it. Bucky takes the abuse with great aplomb, even going so far as to tip his head onto Steve’s gently quaking shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, knocking the crowns of their helmets together. “I guess I’ll forgive you.”

“You’re too kind,” Bucky simpers, clambering to his feet and offering Steve a hand up. “You still going down then?”

Steve pokes his head over the edge before turning back to Bucky. “You know, I think I am.”

“You’re a madman,” Bucky informs him fondly. Steve steps forward, using both hands to grab the edges of Bucky’s hood and pulling until the material lies neat and even. 

“Probably,” he agrees amiably, and hops backwards off the cliff. He hears Bucky yell from above him, but he keeps his eyes on the rapidly growing outcropping he’s careening toward. Part of his mind races, trying to calculate when he should call on the Light to slow his descent, but the rest is wondering at the feeling of freefall. The Mark at his hip flutters wildly and his stomach feels like it’s crawling into his throat, but his heart feels like it’s going to burst from his chest and float away from the prison of his body. He thinks it’s probably morbid to feel that way, but he can’t stop the savage smile stretching his face. 

The thinking part of his brain kicks in suddenly, and Steve gathers the Light within him. He releases it all in a rush and feels it struggling to lift him, but he’s falling too fast for the normal ascension to occur. It does a fair job of slowing him though, so even when the force cuts out several body lengths above the ledge, Steve falls slow enough not to break anything. He still lands hard, grunting with the impact, but that’s nothing to worry about. He takes a quick check of his surroundings, but finding no immediate concerns, turns his eyes upward. 

Bucky is falling, knees bent and rifle in hand, his cloak stretched straight out above his head. Unlike Steve, he waits to use his Light until his feet are almost even with the top of Steve’s head. Bucky hops in midair, his Light acting almost as a trampoline and absorbing the speed of his fall, bouncing him up gently before he lands gracefully just beside Steve. 

“Nice landing,” Steve snarks, reaching out to smooth Bucky’s mussed hood automatically. 

“Speak for yourself,” Bucky snorts. “You landed so hard, I was sure you were gonna go right through this rock.” He stomps once in emphasis, and Steve scoffs, giving him a shove. 

“Shut up,” Steve snorts. “You’re just jealous.”

“I would literally never be jealous of you,” Bucky huffs, pushing Steve playfully. Steve pushes back, and they would likely devolve into playfully tussling, but the outcropping they’re standing on isn’t large enough to allow it. Instead, Bucky manages to catch the handle on the top of Steve’s helmet and drags him down to crack their foreheads together. “Are we checkin’ out this cave or what?”

“Of course we are,” Steve says, straightening up and hefting his shotgun. His scout rifle is amazing, but caves are usually tight quarters. With Bucky at his back, Steve doesn’t have anything to worry about anyway. As he steps into the dark mouth of the cave, his Ghost appears over his shoulder, illuminating the path ahead of him. 

The cave slopes gently downward, and Steve immediately notices the gentle patter of dripping water. He follows along the right wall, absently noticing Bucky breaking to the left. He keeps an eye on his radar, both for warning about enemies and for the comfort of Bucky’s blue dot moving steadily forward. The floor of the cave is mostly smooth, save for one large boulder near the middle and a still pool of dark water glistening beside it. Steve keeps an eye out for the gray shell of a dead Ghost, but sees nothing before meeting up with Bucky at the back of the cave.

“So much for that,” Bucky chirps smugly, letting his rifle hang limply in his hands. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” Steve shrugs, feeling inordinately disappointed. Knowing the Ghosts are suffering before they die should be enough to curb his enthusiasm, but without seeing their pain for himself, it doesn’t seem real. 

“You guess so?” Bucky asks, pushing at his shoulder lightly. “What’s there to guess about?”

Steve sighs. “I really wanted to find a Ghost.”

“God,” Bucky moans, “keep it together you sad sack. You have eternity to find dead Ghosts.”

“I know,” Steve mutters. Bucky laughs at him, pushing past and heading for the opening of the cave. With his back to Steve, the Ghost at his shoulder finally slips into the light Steve’s own Ghost is projecting. He squints to make sure he’s seeing the right thing. “Wait, is your Ghost pink now?”

Bucky’s steps stall, and he half turns to look at Steve. “Yeah, why?”

“Just surprised,” Steve says, trotting after him. When they’re shoulder to shoulder, Bucky sets off for the cave mouth again, Steve in tow. “Why pink?”

“She was hoping a pink shell would make people assume she’s female,” Bucky shrugs. 

“She is female,” Steve says, uncertainty pinching his brows together. 

“Yeah but everyone assumes she’s either male or non-gendered.”

“So she’s relying on old gender stereotypes?” Steve asks pointedly. 

“Look man,” Bucky sighs, stepping out into the sunlight, “sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Besides, I like it. It suits her.”

Steve shrugs, a bland sort of agreement. He doesn’t know Bucky’s Ghost well enough to pass any judgement on her. 

“Why do you think the Traveler made all the Ghosts so different?” Steve asks, more for something to say than any genuine curiosity. 

Bucky looks to his Ghost, then to Steve. “All the Guardians are different,” Bucky says with a one shouldered shrug. “Why shouldn’t their Ghosts be different to match?”

“But we’re not really like our Ghosts,” Steve says slowly. 

“What do you mean?” Steve’s Ghost interrupts with feigned horror dripping from its voice. “We’re both so brave and intelligent and charming…”

“You’re annoying,” Steve says flatly. His Ghost splutters. 

“So are you,” Bucky says, kicking at his ankles. 

“Me? Annoying?” Steve yelps playfully. At Bucky’s solemn nod, Steve claps both hands over his heart and staggers closer to Bucky. “Ouch, right through the heart.”

“Please,” Bucky snorts, planting his palm on Steve’s visor and pushing him away. “I only make headshots.”

Steve laughs, dropping his wounded facade to rap his knuckles on Bucky’s chest plate. There’s a nick in the plasteel that looks distinctly familiar, but Steve can’t quite place it, so he ignores it. “No body shots for this sniper,” he teases. 

“Goddamn right,” Bucky grunts, folding his arms over his chest and effectively pushing Steve back a step. Once again, Steve’s eyes fall to the nick in Bucky’s armor. 

It hits him like a flash. A Dreg’s arc blade slicing through the body suit at his waist and dragging up over his ribs. It’d screeched across the plasteel chest guard and left a decent sized gash in the armor. 

“Holy shit, Bucky,” Steve laughs gleefully. “Is that a piece of my old armor?”

Bucky groans dramatically, shoving at Steve’s shoulder ineffectively. “Get the hell away from me, you smug bastard.”

“It is,” Steve crows, clapping his hands together. “It’s the chest piece I had during Six Fronts!”

“Shut up,” Bucky whines. “We’ve got shit for armor. We always steal scrap from you idiot Titans.”

“We?” Steve prompts, laughter bubbling in his voice. 

“Hunters,” Bucky grumbles. “Shut the fuck up.”

“You just had to ask Buck,” Steve sing-songs merrily. “I have way nicer stuff you could pick through.”

“God, just stop talking,” Bucky moans. “Please, Steve.”

Steve swallows down his laughter, holding both hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he huffs, “I won’t say anything else about it. But if you ever want better armor, you can just ask. I’ve got all kinds of stuff now.”

Bucky shakes his head and firmly changes the subject. “You didn’t think about how we’re getting back up there before you jumped, did you?” 

Steve follows his pointed finger to the top of the sheer cliff face. “Oops,” Steve says, without an ounce of apology. 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met,” he sighs. 

“Aw, c’mon,” Steve laughs. “We can just transmat to our ships.”

“I could just throw you off this cliff,” Bucky counters, gesturing to the cold, dark water churning far below. 

“You could try,” Steve nods, holding his arms out from his sides invitingly. 

“Please,” Bucky scoffs, “I know my strengths, and shoving a stubborn asshole like you off a cliff isn’t one of them.”

Steve chuckles, and Bucky plants his hands on his hips, tipping his head back to study the rocky wall between them and freedom. Steve could content himself watching Bucky stand perfectly still, but he spares himself that particular heartache. Instead he turns to look down at the water, watching the waves rimmed with white foam smashing against the rocks below. 

“Oh my god, you’re such an idiot,” Bucky cackles. 

“Huh?” Steve grunts eloquently, twisting to see what’s caused Bucky’s outburst. He doesn’t get far, however, before a weight slams into him and sends him careening toward the water. With a shriek, Steve wriggles in the air like a cat and claws at the air for anything solid to grab. His blind flailing puts him in contact with Bucky’s arm. Steve knows Bucky won’t be able to stop his descent, but damn it, if he’s going down, he’s not doing it alone. 

Steve wraps his fingers around Bucky’s wrist in a deathgrip, and then the two of them are plummeting down toward the waves below. 

“You brought this on yourself,” Steve laughs. 

“I didn’t expect you to grab me,” Bucky whines. He spins slowly as they fall, first head over heels and then horizontal circles. Just watching is enough to make Steve dizzy.

“You expected me to just give up?” Steve asks, incredulous. 

“So it wasn’t my brightest plan,” Bucky shrugs. 

Steve takes a peek at the rocky waves rising rapidly to meet them and shrugs. “At least it’s a short lived failure, right?”

Bucky spins lazily around in the air until he can see the water. “Yep,” Bucky huffs. He gives Steve a dorky little wave as they close in on their impending deaths. “See ya topside.”


	3. A Titan’s Guide to the Third Time, the Charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the very bestest, my savior and sanity, my sounding board and partner in crime, [SiriusGrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiriusGrey/profile)
> 
> Title from "Black Sun on the Horizon" by Gunship.
> 
> I was lucky enough to get 2 super lovely artists for this fic, [EmeraldWolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeraldwolf/pseuds/Emeraldwolf) and [koreanrage](http://koreanrage.tumblr.com/). I'll add links to their art posts with the embedded images in the fic, so please give them some love for their awesome work! 
> 
> This fic could probably be read alone, but it'll make a whole lot more sense if you read [Part 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11156742/chapters/24896103) first.
> 
> **Glossary**
> 
>   _Guardian_ : A reanimated corpse-turned-specialized soldier tasked with the defense of the last city on Earth and exploration of the lost remnants of humanity's Golden Age throughout the solar system.  
>  _Titan_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on strength and power.  
>  _Hunter_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on speed and finesse.  
>  _Warlock_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on... "space magic."  
>  _Traveler_ : A mysterious, city-sized sphere hovering close to Earth's surface which grants superhuman abilities to Guardians.  
>  _Ghost_ : A levitating artificial intelligence used by Guardians.  
>  _HUD_ : "Heads Up Display"  
>  _Fireteam_ : A small squad composed of 2 to 6 Guardians.  
>  _Cosmodrome_ : A shipyard located in Old Russia that once served as a vital link to space.

_"Sometimes I dream about places I’ve never been.”_  
_"It’s normal among Guardians: dreams about the time before."_  
_"I dream about this place."_  
_"Maybe you lived here."_  
_"I think I died here."_  
—Two Warlocks

* * *

“Hey,” Bucky says casually, slipping over the railing and dropping down into the lowered seating area Steve has claimed. Steve scrambles to hide the rusty sketch he’d been working on, swiping a palm across the thin datapad to erase all the evidence. Bucky’s head tips to the side questioningly, but he doesn’t comment. 

“Hi,” Steve says, a little belated. 

“What are you up to?” Bucky asks, resting his hip against the smooth surfaced planter parked at the end of Steve’s seat. 

“Nothing,” Steve replies immediately. There had been a time, he thinks, when he’d have been shameless in showing off his creativity, but the memory has grown thin and watery, not unlike his talent. Maybe someday, but not now. “What are you up to?”

“Why do I have to be up to something?” Bucky returns, folding his arms across his chest. 

Steve snorts, turning a disbelieving look at him. The blank face of his helmet stares back. “You’re always up to something.”

“Not really,” Bucky argues, voice tipping high as he draws out the words. 

“Yes really.” 

Bucky’s head tilts and Steve can almost picture the teasing smile behind his helm. 

“All right,” Bucky agrees breezily. “I am up to something. Wanna come along?”

“Yes!” Steve yelps, fumbling his datapad in his rush to get to his feet. Bucky laughs, full and deep, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “Not a solo mission, for once?”

Bucky holds his hand parallel to the ground and shakes it quickly side to side in a gesture of uncertainty. “I could go alone,” he murmurs, leading Steve out of the alcove and toward the armory, “but Brask suggested I bring a team.”

“So I make up a whole team?” Steve snorts. 

Bucky shrugs grandly. “You’re a Titan.”

“That doesn’t make me infallible,” Steve sighs, but he can’t offer any further resistance. Bucky always takes his missions solo, and Steve doesn’t want to convince him to return to his old habits. 

Bucky waves him away, and ducks inside the armory. He’s already got his hand cannon on his hip and sniper rifle slung across his back, so he must think they’ll need some heavy weaponry wherever they’re going. With a sigh, Steve follows him inside and quickly scans the machine guns for his favorite. 

“Why don’t you love yourself, Steve?” Bucky laughs, patting the long tube of his rocket launcher fondly before his Ghost sends it to his inventory. 

Steve puts a defensive hand on the body of his machine gun. “Not everyone needs to overcompensate with a big explosion.”

Bucky barks a laugh and leads Steve out into the hall. They stroll through the twisting streets, shoulders bumping together, Bucky carefully directing Steve on a meandering course toward the hangar. The path takes them into an abandoned alley, dark and filled almost to bursting with stacks of crates. It’s closer to a storage closet than a corridor, clearly unused, and Steve stops to frown at the back of Bucky’s head. 

“I swear you like watching me clomp around in tight spaces,” Steve mutters, trying to pick out a relatively easy route over and around the debris. 

“You’ll be fine,” Bucky snorts softly, then slowly, almost shyly, reaches out to curl his fingers around Steve’s. 

Steve smiles so wide his face starts to hurt. “Yeah,” Steve breathes, face growing warm. “I guess I will.”

They traverse the narrow hall hand in hand, Bucky leading with the confidence of experience. In a happy daze, Steve gladly follows, eyes seldom straying from their joined grip. It makes Steve’s stomach flip in the most delightful way, and he finds himself chewing on his bottom lip to stop a face splitting smile. 

The alleyway deposits them in a secluded little alcove, flush against the wall of a dead end hallway branching off the tower center. Bucky lingers in this isolated space, and Steve is more than happy to accommodate, prolonging their hand holding. 

“Steve,” Bucky says quietly, turning so they’re face to helmet visor. 

“Yeah Buck?” Steve exhales, barely breathing. Bucky squeezes his fingers. 

“I,” Bucky chokes, swallowing audibly. Steve bites the edge of his tongue, ready to crawl out of his skin with nerves and anticipation. 

“You know,” a voice calls, loud and echoing in the alcove, “I knew someone else was aware of this shortcut but I couldn’t figure out who.”

Just like that, the moment is broken. Bucky jolts away from Steve like he’s been struck by lightning, yanking his hand free with violent desperation. Hurt, disappointment, and resentment claw their way up the back of Steve’s throat, but he presses them down and turns to the intruder. 

He’s a Hunter, tucked away under a big floppy hood. An Exo, Steve thinks, if the electric blue glow from his eyes and parted mouth are anything to go on. He’s leaning against the wall, so easy he must have practiced it. 

“Shiro,” Bucky growls, voice low and sharp with warning. At the end of the hall, Shiro pushes himself upright effortlessly and holds both hands in the air in surrender. 

“Sarge,” he returns, voice level and even. If he hadn’t just interrupted them, Steve might even find his voice downright soothing to listen to. His eyes flick to Steve. “Titan,” he adds, with a polite nod. Steve returns the gesture. 

“What do you want?” Bucky asks tightly. 

“Nothing,” Shiro shrugs. “Not many people realize that’s actually a hallway and I wanted to know who else had figured it out.”

Bucky’s arms fold over his chest, his fingers beating against his bicep like thunder. Steve looks between the Hunters uncertainly, wondering if he should try to defuse the situation. After a few tense moments of silence, Shiro clasps his hands in front of his waist and nods. 

“Now the mystery’s solved,” he says blandly, “I’ll just be on my way.”

He turns on his heel, marching off, and Steve can feel Bucky relaxing with each step put between them and the Exo. 

“Friend of yours?” Steve asks mildly, when he’s sure the other Hunter is well out of earshot. 

Bucky scoffs agitatedly. “He works with Saladin sometimes,” Bucky mutters, and it’s the only explanation Steve gets before Bucky’s striking off with purpose. There’s no meandering this time. Bucky leads him through the tower along the fastest, straightest route possible. He doesn’t pause in the hangar, either. As soon as he sets foot into the wide open room, his Ghost transmats him to his ship, and Steve sighs. 

“We’d better get after him,” he tells his Ghost. 

The construct sighs, long suffering. “Do we even know where we’re going?”

“No clue,” Steve shrugs.

“I’m lodging a formal complaint about your friends, Guardian,” his Ghost says banally, transmatting Steve to his own ship. 

“We’d both be bored out of our minds without my friends and you know it,” Steve teases. 

“The truth hurts,” his Ghost agrees. Steve lets his Ghost handle the autopilot, since he can’t even see Bucky’s ship in the sky to follow after it. Without the need to focus on where they’re going, Steve leans back and watches the clouds roll by outside. He picks out shapes and colors that are interesting to him, planning in his head how he would draw them, even though he has no intention of doing so. 

It’s a short trip to their unknown destination, and his cloud watching keeps him occupied for all of it. When he feels his ship starting to descend, he sits up straight.

“So? Where are we?”

“Looks like the European Dead Zone,” his Ghost hums thoughtfully. 

“The EDZ?” Steve asks, excited. More than a decade as a Guardian and he still has never actually been to Europe. “Bucky takes me to all the nicest places.”

“Just be careful,” his Ghost pleads exasperatedly. “This place is entirely out of our control.”

“Yes, Mom,” Steve laughs, pulling on his helmet. “I promise I’ll be good.”

The blue light of his Ghost’s face twirls in a circle, a perfect imitation of an eye roll. “Ready for transmat?”

“Yep.”

“Okay,” his Ghost says reluctantly. “Here we go.”

Steve alights on a gentle swell of a hill overlooking the battered, overgrown remains of a small European town. Old crumbling stone buildings mingle with the smooth metal walls of their newer counterparts, a cross section of Europe’s vast history. Rusted vehicles line the roadways, covered in greenery, like they’re being pulled down into the earth. The tall grass sways in the breeze and ivy climbs up sheer walls. It’s clear this place was lost to the wilds a long time ago. 

Bucky has already pushed on ahead, crouched low with his sniper on the corpse of a truck. As he holds there, surveying the dead city with a sweep so slow Steve almost can’t see him moving, there’s a flicker and suddenly Bucky disappears. Steve can see the shimmer of him only because he knows where to look. It draws a reluctant smile from him. 

“So unfair,” Steve murmurs fondly. 

“Hunters wouldn’t know fair if it slapped them in the face,” his Ghost agrees with a huff. 

Steve’s smile widens. “You jealous?”

“Me? Jealous?” His Ghost squawks. “I’m insulted you’d even imply such a thing.”

“Uh huh,” Steve grunts disbelievingly, hefting his scout rifle and starting cautiously after Bucky. “I definitely believe you.”

“I know you like me better than him,” the Ghost says confidently. “Just because he’s handsome and charming and mysterious and has a really long Arc Blade…”

Steve chokes on a laugh. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Please Guardian,” his Ghost sniffs haughtily, “try to keep your mind out of the gutter.”

Steve hums. “It’s harder than it looks.”

He’s met with several seconds of the loudest silence of his life before his Ghost snickers. “Nailed. It.”

“Now whose mind is in the gutter?” Steve accuses playfully. 

“I must be spending too much time with you,” he Ghost laments dramatically. “You’re tainting my purity and innocence.”

“You’re basically a necromancer,” Steve points out. “When were you ever pure or innocent?”

“You wound me Guardian,” his Ghost sighs. “Your words cut deep.”

Steve chuckles quietly, but mission focus starts to take over as he nears Bucky. “Anything?” He asks lowly. 

“Not yet,” Bucky answers in kind, before sweeping his sniper back across the buildings below. Steve watches him with raised brows. Bucky isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty and he’s certainly never hesitated to bring the fight to his enemies, squishy Hunter or not. It’s unusual for him to practice this much caution. 

“Something wrong?”

Bucky is still invisible, but Steve can see the motion when he pulls away from his scope and turns his head. He’s silent for a long moment before returning to his careful surveillance. 

“Just have a bad feeling,” Bucky mutters. 

Steve sighs, tapping his fingers against the body of his gun. “Look, there’s no way I can sneak down there,” he says, gesturing to himself. Between the heft of his armor and the startling blue of it, he’s the exact opposite of inconspicuous. 

“You don’t need to wear that shader,” Bucky grumbles, as if the color is the only problem. He rolls to his feet gracefully and stows his rifle, folding his arms over his chest. The cloaking ability of Patience and Time dissipates, splutters and fades, leaving him standing there in his sensible, drab armor. 

“This is your favorite shader and you know it,” Steve teases easily. 

Bucky rolls his head slightly, the helmeted equivalent of an eyeroll. “Too bad it looks like shit on you.”

“Wow, harsh,” Steve laughs, clapping a hand over his chest as if wounded. 

“Knock it off,” Bucky sighs with no conviction. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“What?” Steve pushes, sliding a step closer. “What am I trying to do?”

“Trying to distract me,” Bucky huffs. 

Steve feels heat flood his face, and his eyelids dip low over his eyes, although Bucky can’t see it. “Is it working?” He asks, surprising himself with how sultry his voice sounds. 

Bucky takes a deliberate step closer, like it’s a compulsion. “It might be,” he replies, voice gone delightfully rough. Steve has to bite his lip to keep his nervous laughter in check. He leans in without meaning to, unable to stop himself from getting closer. It’s stupid - they’re both in full armor in the middle of possible danger. At best, the most they’ll get out of this _thing_ they’re doing is the awful screech of plasteel plating scraping against more plasteel plating. 

But Steve isn’t alone. Bucky reaches out with a tentative hand and flattens his palm on the curve of Steve’s narrow waist. His other hand is inches from Steve’s helmet, fingers reaching like they want to curl against his jaw, when they’re interrupted. 

A flash of light and the sting of wire rifle fire zips past Steve’s shoulder. Bucky’s spine seemingly collapses, he’s wrapped up in a ball so quickly, and then he’s rolling backwards out of the Vandal’s line of sight. Steve blinks after him, kind of miffed their moment was cut short _again_ , and right when it was getting good. 

“So rude,” he mutters under his breath. 

“Uh, Guardian,” his Ghost says, sounding in turn disappointed and completely resigned, “maybe you’d like to move?”

“Why?” Steve scoffs. “Vandals have terrible aim.”

“Until they don’t,” his Ghost gripes. 

Steve’s eyes lift to the battered truck, where he can see the faint shimmer of Bucky’s invisible form. He’s lying prone, Steve thinks, across the roof of the truck with his sniper carefully balanced ahead of him. A sharp smirk cuts across his lips. 

“Bucky has excellent aim,” Steve says. His Ghost heaves a dramatic sigh and falls silent. 

The Vandal fires again, the arc slug from its rifle slapping into Steve’s shoulder with a pop and sizzle. Steve shrugs it off without batting an eye. 

“Just the one,” Bucky announces. “Probably a scout.”

There’s a loud, echoing bang and the Vandal snaps backwards, arms locked in an extended position. Steve grins, pride swelling through him. His own aim with a sniper rifle is kind of sad, but Bucky is so on point that Steve wants to build him a monument. 

The scrape of metal on metal is the only indication Steve gets that Bucky is moving, before he steps out of thin air with the rifle cradled in his arms. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bucky growls, jostling Steve with a well placed elbow. 

“I second that!” Steve’s Ghost chimes in, appearing just beside the two Guardians. 

“You shush,” Steve snorts, pushing his AI away. It tumbles through the air for several yards, bemoaning the indignities it faces as it goes. Steve leaves it to its self pity, focusing on Bucky. “You could out snipe that thing 100 times to 1,” Steve shrugs. “I wasn’t worried.”

“It only takes one time, you idiot,” Bucky grumbles. 

“Well luckily,” Steve snarks, irritated, “death is a pretty minor inconvenience for us.”

“You’re insufferable,” Bucky growls. 

“Yeah, and you’re just a barrel of laughs,” Steve snaps. In the wake of his outburst, Bucky is deathly silently, not moving save for the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes deep. 

“Right,” Bucky says, voice sharp but tightly controlled. “There are reports of unusual readings deeper in this town. You go through the middle -- I’ll give your Ghost the coordinates.”

Steve rocks back on his heels, a little taken aback by the abrupt change in topic. “What about you?”

Bucky points with two fingers toward the outer rim of the buildings, then makes a quick circle in the air. Steve isn’t exactly sure what that means, but he assumes Bucky’s planning on going around the outside to get to their destination. Steve nods, and Bucky turns, trotting off low and quiet. 

After Bucky disappears from view, Steve heaves a sigh and starts down the main thoroughfare through town. Like most places once inhabited by humans, this little village is filled with signs of a desperate attempt to escape. Vehicles are parked on the road, covered over with greenery, and houses are open, doors and windows completely missing in some places. Steve imagines a time when the roads were bustling and the homes were filled with light and life. 

As Steve gets deeper into the town, the buildings get taller, and Steve finds himself craning his neck to check all the gaping windows above him. It’s the perfect place for a lookout, and someone is going to notice the missing Vandal scout Bucky’d killed. He moves forward cautiously, keeping an eye on his motion tracker, but there’s nothing. 

That makes him more nervous than running into a patrol would. Something seems off. 

The thought that Steve should warn Bucky has barely crossed his mind when his Ghost creates an audio link between them. 

“Buck,” Steve says, surprised. He clears his throat and focuses. “There’s _nothing_ in this town.”

“I’ve noticed,” Bucky mutters. “Something’s wrong. Keep your eyes up.”

The audio link cuts out. “Ghost,” Steve says, immediately. “It’s a little creepy when you do things I haven’t asked you to do.”

“Our neural symbiosis is extremely advanced,” his Ghost replies promptly. “When you need me to do something, I’m probably going to know about it.”

“I’m not sure that’s better,” Steve mutters, peering at a suspiciously shadowy corner. 

“Oh, don’t worry. There’s plenty going on in your head that I can’t even hope to understand,” the Ghost replies chipperly. 

Steve snorts a laugh, shaking his head, and heads into the rickety building the destination marker seems to be in. It appears to be some sort of vehicle garage, but one wall is lined with bulky computer equipment. One monitor is flickering with life, and Steve gravitates toward it. 

“Is this what we’re looking for?”

“Let me check it out,” his Ghost replies, materializing in front of Steve and turning to scan the computer. 

Steve steps away from the computer, observing the heavy machinery waiting half covered deeper in the room. There’s a corner bathed in thick darkness, and it draws Steve’s eyes. As he watches, he could swear he sees something moving. He walks backwards, never moving his eyes, towards his Ghost. 

“How much longer?” Steve asks, adrenaline already flooding through him. 

“Hmm?” His Ghost hums. “A minute or two, why?”

“I think we’re about to have some company.”

“That’s not great,” his Ghost mutters, scanning for all it’s worth. 

“It really isn’t,” Steve agrees quietly, just as a Fallen finally emerges from the darkness, crawling spider-like over the machinery. Steve lifts his scout rifle and opens fire. The Fallen dies quickly, but Steve’s on edge. He makes himself breathe slowly, hyper focused on his radar. The seconds tick by uncomfortably, and he begins to worry about Bucky. 

“What’s taking so long?” Steve whispers to himself. 

“One more second,” his Ghost replies. “This information is very troubling.” It ends its scan and zips over to Steve, opening an audio link with Bucky as it goes. 

“Hey,” Steve snaps, harsh with concern. “Where are you? We’ve got the data.”

“A little busy,” Bucky barks. The sound of weapons fire follows his words. 

“I’ll be right there,” Steve says, though he has no idea where “there” is.

“I’ve got him,” the Ghost says, dropping a marker on Steve’s HUD. He sprints from the room, hurtling around a corner and up a set of narrow stone stairs overgrown with vine. He races down a narrow side road and bursts out into a wide open square with a broken fountain statue in the middle. On the far side of the square, rolling into cover behind a lopsided old bus, is Bucky with what looks like the entire House of Devils on his ass. 

Steve rushes forward, drawing up all the arc energy in his body. With a storm brewing in his veins and lightning crackling in his fists, Steve leaps up the exaggerated lean of a broken bus stop shelter and jumps straight down into the fray. When he slams into the ground, lightning explodes around him and the group of Fallen that’d been hot on Bucky’s heels disintegrate. 

There’s still motion on the far edges of his radar, but not so close that Steve can’t trot over to Bucky’s side to give him a hand up. The ends of Bucky’s cloak are smoldering, but otherwise, the Hunter looks fine. 

“Thanks,” Bucky grunts. 

“Sure,” Steve shrugs. “What happened?”

“A fucking dropship just about landed on my head,” Bucky spits. 

Steve swallows a laugh. “I guess being conspicuous was the better choice this time.”

“God,” Bucky groans, pushing away from Steve. “Fuck off, you’re awful.”

Steve chuckles. “You’re full of it.”

“Probably,” Bucky sighs. He’s still for a moment, like he’s listening to something, then he nods decisively and pulls his hand cannon from its holster. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Why not bring our ships down right here?” Steve asks, gesturing at the wide open square. 

“That Skiff might come back,” Bucky shrugs. 

“Yeah, alright,” Steve agrees easily. In unspoken agreement, they head back the way Steve had come, through the square towards the dried up fountain. They clatter down the stone steps and along the road through town. Everything is quiet, save for the handful of targets that appear on the outer edges of their radars. 

They’re almost home free, the verdant hill holding the rusted out truck in plain sight, when there’s a pop and something very big appears on their motion trackers. Steve tips his head back, and there above them is the vaguely insectoid Skiff. It glides to a stop maybe 50 feet above them and Fallen spill out of it. 

“Hey Buck,” Steve says, just shy of teasing.

“Don’t say it,” Bucky grumbles. They both fall into a quick rhythm, thinning out the hoard coming for them. Steve listens for the low bark of Bucky’s hand cannon, steady fire followed by a pause to reload. 

There’s a Servitor amongst the bipedal aliens, casting a shield cloak. Steve groans quietly, already annoyed by the hovering purple sphere. Impatient, Steve stows his gun and charges in, letting the arc energy course over his skin. When he gets close to the main bulk of the enemies, he leaps into the air and slams lightning down onto the ground amongst them. The foot soldiers are killed instantly, but the Servitor makes a few pathetic, mechanical whimpering sounds before it breaks to pieces and drops. 

“Steve!” Bucky shouts. Steve turns first to look at him and then, at his urging, at the sky above him. The Skiff’s main guns are spooling up, hatches opening along the side of the sleek body. Cluster bombs come rolling out of the dropship, blinking red lights and a high pitched warning klaxon to mark them. They only hurt for a second, in Steve’s experience, so he takes a deep breath and braces for it. 

Instead, Bucky is suddenly at his side, slinging his arms around Steve’s body. Instinctually, Steve grabs Bucky’s arm and moves along with him. Together they jump and Bucky squeezes one fist tightly. The world around them smears with electric blue light followed by a pop, and the world comes into focus. The Skiff is some 20 feet behind them, and Bucky is urging Steve on into a run. Ahead of them, Bucky’s ship lowers through the clouds and descends toward the earth with an earsplitting boom. After a moment, Steve’s follows in its wake.

“What was that?” Steve shouts as they run.

“Blink,” Bucky yells back. “Short range teleport.”

“Why do Hunters get all the cool shit?” Steve whines, which makes Bucky laugh right up to the belly of their ships. 

Once they’re both transmatted aboard, and they’ve put some distance between themselves and the village, Bucky connects their audio link.

“What did your Ghost find?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. He looks to his Ghost, who looks back at him. 

“Well,” it says slowly, “there’s a lot of data here. Flight paths originating outside the Traveler’s influence, descriptions of a some sort of vessel unfamiliar to the Fallen, and a rather gauche introspective piece written about undying monsters with unbelievable powers.”

Bucky snorts. “Sounds familiar.”

“Yes,” the Ghost replies, “that’s what’s troubling. None of this appears to be about Guardians.”

“Meaning,” Steve prompts. 

“We knew about the Hive,” Steve’s Ghost says carefully, “but I think this is all about them. I think they’re more than we thought they were.”

“Great, something other than the Fallen to fight,” Steve mutters sarcastically. 

“It does get boring fighting them all the time, doesn’t it?” Steve’s Ghost returns blandly.

“Whatever,” Bucky sighs. “We’ll send all the information to Brask and he’ll get it to whoever needs to know.”

Steve agrees easily. Andal Brask works closely with Zavala and Osiris as de facto leaders of the Guardians, so one of them is bound to have a plan, at the very least. The rest of their short trip back to the City is silent and Steve takes the time to breathe. Between the adrenaline of the fight and the new concern about the Hive, he needs a minute or two to settle in his resolve. 

When they arrive, Steve yanks his helmet off gladly, dragging his hand back and forth over his hair briskly. He looks up to find Bucky staring at him. 

“Can I help you?” He asks, smile threatening to take over his face. 

“I--” Bucky stammers, making calming gestures with his hands as his Ghost materializes beside him. “You just, stay right here,” Bucky demands. His Ghost vanishes and Bucky sprints off, leaving Steve befuddled. 

“What was that?” Steve asks, dumbfounded. 

“I transfered the data to his Ghost, so presumably he’s delivering it.”

“Yeah but I don’t need to stay here for him to do that,” Steve points out. His Ghost makes a noncommittal sound, and Steve sighs. He drifts over to the railing that separates the walkway from the hangar bay and leans on it heavily. Ships float in and putter out, all automated, and Steve’s fingers start to itch to draw them. Unprompted, and unwanted Steve thinks stubbornly, his Ghost produces the datapad he’d been doodling on when Bucky had first found him. 

Still, with the option literally at his fingertips, Steve starts sketching the scene. The drafty, open design of the hangar, the late evening sun casting stark shadows, and the variety of sleek likes, bulky shapes, and curved engines that make up most of the ships. 

“You’re pretty good,” says a voice just over his left shoulder, and Steve startles so hard he drops the datapad. It tumbles a foot or two before disappearing in squares of white light, carefully stowed away by his Ghost before it could shatter against the ground.

“Bucky,” Steve exclaims, clapping his hand over his hammering heart. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” Bucky laughs, sounding anything but, and pats Steve’s shoulder consolingly. “Come with me?”

“Where?” Steve asks, but he’s already pushing away from the railing. 

“Just,” Bucky huffs lightly, snagging Steve’s forearm, “come with me.”

Bucky drags Steve behind him, picking up speed until they’re both running through the streets, breathless and laughing. They end up outside the Wall, galloping through the snow capped, hilly expanse of Old Russia. Steve has no idea where they’re going, but he’s more than happy to let Bucky lead him. 

They come to a dilapidated shed in the middle of nowhere, ensconced in the shade of an ancient, towering pine. Bucky drops Steve’s arm and pulls his helmet free, gulping a big breath of air. His hair is a mess, tangled and pressed flat, but he’s so lovely Steve almost trips over his own feet. 

There’s a rotting wooden box flush against the wall, meant to hold logs for a fire, and Bucky lifts himself onto it gracefully. He pulls a cigarette and a lighter from a pouch on his belt and lights up, sitting back with a deep sigh of pleasure. As if compelled, Steve sidles up close to him, leaning his hip against the shed and watching Bucky’s fingers around the stick. 

“Brask said thanks,” Bucky says quietly, offering the cigarette to Steve. He takes it, though he’s never wanted to smoke before, and takes a drag. It burns, and Steve chokes, coughing roughly. He thrusts the cigarette back at Bucky, and it makes him smile so his eyes crinkle at the corners. Not the worst outcome, honestly. 

“Did he seem concerned?” Steve asks, voice still a little ragged from the smoke. 

“No,” Bucky denies, flicking the cigarette, “but he isn’t the type who would.”

Steve hums softly, and Bucky settles back, feet kicking slowly and arhythmically. Bucky’s cigarette is tucked between his pointer and middle fingers. He wraps his lips around it and sucks in until the end glows bright, holding it in his lungs for a moment before blowing out through his nose. Steve is staring, he knows he’s staring, but he can’t make himself stop. 

“What are you looking at?” Bucky asks, eyes carefully trained on the horizon. Turning his head away from Bucky takes outrageous effort, but he manages it. He aims his stare at his own feet, dried mud caked on his boots. 

“Nothing,” he mutters, suddenly frustrated with himself, with Bucky, with life. 

“No, see,” Bucky turns, pointing with half curled fingers, cigarette still delicately wedged. “I ask you what you’re looking at and you’re supposed to say “you”.”

“I--what?” Steve yelps. 

“Bat your big, stupid blue eyes at me and admit you were looking,” Bucky huffs lightly. 

Steve swallows thickly, heart beating fast. He’s pretty sure he can follow this thread to its destination, and he’s definitely interested in getting there. 

“So?” Bucky prompts, mashing out his cigarette and dropping the stub into the pouch on his belt. He hops off the packing crate and stalks over to Steve, pressing right into his space. “What was it? My eyes? My jaw?” He pauses to smirk rakishly. “My mouth?”

Steve can take a hint. He lets his eyes lower to Bucky’s lips, leans forward until there’s nearly no space between them at all, and murmurs, “you.”

“Good answer,” Bucky purrs and then his hands are in Steve’s hair and they’re kissing. His mouth is soft, giving, even though his grip on Steve is iron. He’s demanding of Steve’s attention, making him hustle to keep up with the rhythm, the back and forth flow of it. Steve’s never kissed anyone like this, can’t even remember anymore if he’d ever been lucky enough to kiss anyone in his first life, so he grips Bucky’s hips and does his best to keep up. 

Bucky draws back to drag his lips over Steve’s jaw, wriggling his fingers down between the high, tight neck of his body suit and his skin. 

“I hate,” Bucky breathes, hot and damp and smelling of tobacco against the corner of Steve’s chin, “your armor.”

Steve gathers all his courage, every last ounce of confidence he’s ever had, and all the desire singing through his veins. “Then let’s get rid of it,” he hums, low and sultry like he’s never thought himself capable of. 

Bucky sags against him with a groan, fingers picking uselessly at his bulky chest piece. “Fuck,” he hisses, “you’re gonna kill me.”

Steve laughs, bright and carefree, and Bucky pushes off of him. His hand slides down Steve’s arm and nabs his palm, urging him away from the abandoned storage shed. He pulls Steve down to the old dirt path and over it, into the deep gully on the other side. They splash through cold spring puddles and into an open-mouthed culvert, both ducking as they move through the tube. The tunnel deposits them in a slushy divot and Bucky leads up the steep embankment into a little, sheltered meadow. Patchy grass stands tall, and budding plants suggest the entire stretch of greenery will be filled with colorful flowers soon. 

Bucky stops, using Steve’s momentum to swing him around and trips him with a well placed foot. Steve barks a surprised laugh and lets himself go, guided to the ground by Bucky’s grip on his hand. On his back like this, Bucky looms over him, and Steve’s belly swoops with hot anticipation. 

“What are you waiting for?” Steve taunts, ignoring the cold, dampness creeping through his hair and into his scalp. 

Bucky blinks at him, something like amused embarrassment sliding over his features. “Honestly, I’m trying to figure out how to get your armor off.”

Steve bursts into laughter, sitting part way up to hook his fingers in Bucky’s belt. His weight and gravity are enough to pull Bucky to his knees in the grass beside Steve’s ribs. 

“Pay attention,” Steve instructs, slowly reaching for the latches on his chest plate. “I’m only going to show you once.”

“Yeah right,” Bucky scoffs. “First time I take too long, you’ll be at it yourself.”

Steve is a little thrilled that Bucky is already looking forward to doing this again, apparently multiple times, but puts on a stern face. He clamps a hand over Bucky’s mouth. “What part of pay attention did you not understand?”

Bucky’s eyebrows lift, his mouth twisting into a slow, wicked smirk. “Yes sir,” he murmurs, snapping a sharp salute. “Show me how to undress you sir.”

It’s too much. Steve can’t handle it. He lurches up, getting his hands on Bucky’s shoulders and tackling him to the ground. Bucky outright cackles, looping his arms around Steve’s neck to hold him there. They’re both twisted up like taffy; Bucky’s feet trapped under his thighs and forcing his hips to stay arched up just that little bit and Steve bent and folded at the waist, legs almost perfectly perpendicular to his torso. 

They’re both laughing though, cold from the ground and hot from their contact. Steve catches Bucky’s eyes and Bucky smiles, warm and fond. 

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, affection banking the fire in his gut. Bucky’s fingers walk up the back of his neck, light and tickling. 

“Hey doll,” he drawls. His eyes dip to Steve’s lips, and Steve answers his unspoken request. Ignoring the twinge in his spine, he leans further down for another kiss, letting Bucky guide him. It’s slow and wet and lingering, and Steve aches for how much he wants this. Bucky lays a hand on Steve’s waist, where the only thing between them is the thick rubber of Steve’s body suit. 

“You’re starting to get really heavy,” Bucky murmurs sweetly. The teasing light to his eye makes Steve laugh, and he plants a big, smacking kiss on Bucky’s cheek before pushing up off of him. Bucky slithers out from under him and takes a few steps away, peeling off his cloak and armor as he goes. 

“Holy shit,” Steve breathes, scrambling to his feet and working off his own armor. He might die of hypothermia, but damn if it won’t be the best possible way to go.

* * *

Bucky fishes through his pile of discarded armor, grunting in triumph when his fingers close around the crinkly plastic wrapper of his cigarettes. He pussyfoots across the cold dirt, his lighter snapping until the flame finally catches. He sinks down onto the relative warmth of his cloak, seated with his knee touching Steve’s naked hip. Hands braced behind his head, Steve watches the cherry of the cigarette move in the darkness. 

“Stop staring at me,” Bucky mumbles, exhaling heavily. The smell of the smoke twists Steve’s stomach into a tangle of old resentment and fresh lust. “Makin’ me fuckin’ paranoid.”

“Sorry,” Steve whispers. He makes no effort to look away. Bucky’s skin, a few shades darker than Steve’s, still gleams pale and beautiful in the dim moonlight. He’s so beautiful, Steve almost feels sick with it. He wants to reach out to Bucky, hold his hand and kiss his fingers, but he suspects Bucky wouldn’t allow it. 

“No you’re not,” Bucky snorts. The lit end of the cigarette descends, until Steve can only surmise that Bucky’s forearm is braced across his own thigh. 

“Sorry,” Steve repeats, and Bucky retaliates by reaching over to tweak his nipple. Steve makes a high pitched little squeak, squirming on the blanket of Bucky’s cloak. The little red dot lifts again, then Bucky is leaning over him, both hands smoothing up Steve’s thigh, over his hip, and along his ribs. When Bucky speaks, it’s muffled by the butt held between his lips. “I’ll show you sorry.”

His hands skim over Steve’s skin, teasing and too light. Steve exhales sharply, extending his hands up over his head and grabbing at damp clumps of grass to keep himself anchored. Bucky exhales a little snorting laugh, rewarding Steve with chilly fingers brushing low across his belly. He keeps his hands moving steadily until Steve can’t keep a high whine out of his every breath. Bucky stretches out beside him, face so close that the glow of his cigarette illuminates the sheen of his eyes. 

“You sorry yet?”

“Yes,” Steve gasps, screwing his eyes shut. “Bucky, yes, please.”

Bucky laughs lowly, pulling away from Steve. He strains across the cloak, patting the earth searchingly. “Found it,” he grunts, returning to Steve with Steve’s own gauntlet in his hand. He pointedly snuffs the cigarette out against the plasteel, before tossing the gauntlet into the dark and sliding down Steve’s body. 

“Bucky!” Steve hisses, stomach clenching when Bucky’s mouth closes around his erection. He hums, making Steve’s toes curl, and flattens his palm up Steve’s stomach to rest over his hammering heart. Steve lets one hand drop to cover Bucky’s, folding their fingers together and holding on for the ride. Bucky works Steve into a frenzy with a lazy sort of nonchalance, body relaxed in all the places he’s touching Steve. Steve clamps his free hand over his own mouth when he comes, to stifle his voice. 

Bucky crawls up alongside him, smacking his lips teasingly. Steve has enough presence of mind to cover his eyes and groan in embarrassment, which makes Bucky tuck close to him and laugh. “Yeah,” Bucky breathes, husky and rough, “that’s because you asked so nice.”

“I don’t remember asking you for anything,” Steve huffs between breaths. Bucky gives another little laugh, kissing the round of Steve’s shoulder gently and settling in at his side. They lie together in the dark, Steve struggling to control his breathing. 

“We probably shouldn’t lie around naked out here,” Steve murmurs when he can breathe steadily. 

Bucky snuffles against Steve’s side, his lips dragging damp across Steve’s skin. “Why not?”

“Um, the Fallen?” Steve says, because that seems a pretty obvious answer to him. 

“It’s a lot of effort to put my armor back on,” Bucky mumbles. “If the Fallen come shoot me first, my Ghost will handle redressing me on the revive.”

Steve chokes out a laugh, clapping a hand over his mouth to keep quiet. “Buck, seriously?” he snickers. “You’re hoping to die so you don’t have to get dressed?”

Steve feels Bucky shrug. “I can lie here naked with you and wait for the Fallen to make my life easier or I can get up right now and start putting my armor on.”

Steve loops his arm around Bucky’s waist, squeezing him gently closer. “I guess I can see the appeal.”

“Goddamn right you can,” Bucky slurs into Steve’s skin. The two of them doze lightly for a little while, occasionally dragging patterns against each other with their fingertips. Steve is nearly asleep, enjoying Bucky’s touch, when the Hunter speaks up again. 

“I ever tell you how I died?” 

Steve tenses at the question, surprised that Bucky would bring up such a personal topic without Steve’s incessant prompting. Bucky rolls away from him, scrabbling around for something on the cloak. His lighter snaps to life and Steve watches the flickering orange light turn Bucky’s skin gold. Bucky collapses onto his back, blowing smoke straight into the sky. 

“I was a soldier,” Bucky whispers, without inflection. It’s like he’s reading a phone book. “Vietnam.”

“You don’t have to tell me, Bucky,” Steve breathes upward. He wants to reach out his hand and grab Bucky’s, but he worries at the repercussions. Despite the intimacy of the subject, Bucky is not often accepting of Steve’s little affections. He sincerely doubts Bucky would let him get away with any tenderness right now. 

“I got drafted,” Bucky snorts, bitter humor in his voice. “You know, if I were born a year later, I’d have been too young for the lottery. Just my fuckin’ luck.”

“Do you remember how old you were?” Steve asks, surprised. He keeps his eyes on the sky, afraid Bucky will notice if he turns to look at him. 

“23 when I got drafted,” Bucky grunts. “Made it to the ripe ol’ age of 25 though.”

“I’m so sorry Bucky,” Steve murmurs, his chest tight with sympathy for the man beside him. 

“The fuck are you sorry for?” Bucky snaps. Steve is taken aback. 

“You don’t have to tell me this if you don’t want to,” Steve says, voice just edging toward hard. If Bucky is so uncomfortable talking about it, he should stop, even if Steve is dying a little to hear more about Bucky’s past. He doesn’t know a single other Guardian who can remember their life before and there’s an envious part of him that wants to take notes on everything Bucky can recall. 

“I wouldn’t tell you if I didn’t fucking want to, Steve,” Bucky growls. Steve rolls onto his side, to grab Bucky’s attention without touching him. 

“Then don’t get all pissed off,” Steve retorts. “I’m happy to listen, but don’t take your bullshit out on me.”

Bucky huffs, and the cherry of his cigarette burns brightly for a moment. He exhales noisily and rolls onto his side, mirroring Steve. 

“You weren’t even around long enough to see World War II,” Bucky muses. He sucks on his cigarette, making the end glow bright, and blows the smoke away slowly. 

“So I’ve been told,” Steve mutters, watching the reflection of light in Bucky’s eyes. 

“Well ‘Nam was a bitch,” Bucky grumbles, bouncing the cigarette on the fulcrum of his finger absently. “They set up all these traps in the jungle. Nastiest things I’ve ever seen.”

“Traps?” Steve asks. Bucky flops over onto his back, taking another drag of his cigarette. 

“Christ, yeah,” he exhales, smoke wafting around his face. Steve has to force himself to look away in order to listen. “We’d be humping through the jungle and hear the snap of a tripwire and then you had maybe a second to wonder if the deadfall would hurt more or less than a bamboo whip.”

“You remember how it happened, Buck?” Steve asks softly, eyes following the contours of Bucky’s profile. 

The other man snorts a bitter laugh. “We had a lieutenant. A good leader, you know? We were glad to have him. He’s the one who recommended I be promoted to sergeant. There were these little spike traps. Thin piece of wood with nails sticking up through, and they’d lay it over a little hole and cover it with leaves and shit. He stepped on one, got his foot all stuck. We got him out, got him to the doc, but the bastard died of infection anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says gently, unsure of what else to say. He wants to wrap Bucky in his arms until he forgets the old suffering, but he’s afraid to reach out. 

“Yeah, me too,” Bucky grunts. “The asshole they replaced him with was fucking useless. Some kid fresh outta officer school. Dumbass didn’t pay any goddamn attention to where he was going. Stepped through a tripwire that had a big goddamn log swinging down at us. Damn thing caved my fucking chest in. It felt like fucking forever I layed there. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, wouldn’t goddamn die. One of the boys held my hand. I remember thinking it was hilarious, I finally got to hold another boy’s hand where anyone could see. Fuck.”

Steve reaches out, unable to stop himself. He’d thought having his memories slip away like smoke in a breeze was terrible, but this? This might be worse. His hand bumps against Bucky’s shoulder, fingertips sliding across his chest so he can wrap an arm around Bucky’s ribs and pull him close. He scoots in close and presses his forehead to Bucky’s temple. 

Bucky sighs, letting his body relax completely into Steve’s hold. “They think it’s funny, you know, calling me ‘Sarge.’ That’s all I remembered, when I woke up. Pain and suffocating and someone saying, ‘it’s alright, Sarge, you’re gonna be fine, take it easy Sarge.’ But it’s a new life, right? No need to get pissed about something like that.”


	4. A Titan’s Guide to the Slow Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the very bestest, my savior and sanity, my sounding board and partner in crime, [SiriusGrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiriusGrey/profile)
> 
> Title from "Black Sun on the Horizon" by Gunship.
> 
> I was lucky enough to get 2 super lovely artists for this fic, [EmeraldWolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeraldwolf/pseuds/Emeraldwolf) and [koreanrage](http://koreanrage.tumblr.com/). I'll add links to their art posts with the embedded images in the fic, so please give them some love for their awesome work! 
> 
> This fic could probably be read alone, but it'll make a whole lot more sense if you read [Part 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11156742/chapters/24896103) first.
> 
> **Glossary**
> 
> _Guardian_ : A reanimated corpse-turned-specialized soldier tasked with the defense of the last city on Earth and exploration of the lost remnants of humanity's Golden Age throughout the solar system.  
>  _Titan_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on strength and power.  
>  _Hunter_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on speed and finesse.  
>  _Warlock_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on... "space magic."  
>  _Traveler_ : A mysterious, city-sized sphere hovering close to Earth's surface which grants superhuman abilities to Guardians.  
>  _Ghost_ : A levitating artificial intelligence used by Guardians.  
>  _HUD_ : "Heads Up Display"  
>  _Fireteam_ : A small squad composed of 2 to 6 Guardians.  
>  _Cosmodrome_ : A shipyard located in Old Russia that once served as a vital link to space.

_A Warlock riddle: What is a Hunter’s least favorite place to go? Answer: To sleep._  
—Description on the Hunter armor _Dream-Eater Vest_

* * *

“How is _Monty_ winning?” Dum Dum bemoans over the radio. Steve presses his back firmly against the train car rusting into the smooth, concrete floor and cradles his shotgun close. 

“I don’t appreciate the implication that I’m not as skilled as you,” Monty replies chipperly. Footsteps tap their way closer and closer, and Steve watches his motion tracker light up red. 

“You aren’t, darling,” Peggy laughs, just as another Titan rounds the corner of Steve’s cover. Gunmetal-gray armor, knife-like protrusions from the centerline of his greaves. Morita, without question. Steve snaps the muzzle of his shotgun around and fires a shell. Morita stumbles back with a groan, pulling the trigger on his own gun and spraying bullets everywhere. A couple ping off Steve’s armor as he pushes in and slams a fist into Jim’s head. 

“You are all terrible people and I dislike you all,” Monty retorts. Steve bolts through the old warehouse, skidding into what might have once been an office, and out through a tank-sized puncture in the back wall. 

Staying low, Steve trots along the side of the building, headed for the sound of gunshots and groaning. He passes under an open second-story window cautiously, but his motion tracker stays quiet. 

“Argh! Bladedancer!” Dum Dum shrieks suddenly, followed by a cacophony of grenades exploding and bullets lodging themselves into concrete. 

Dum Dum’s outburst is quickly followed by Gabe. “C’mon now, Sarge,” he says placatingly. “There’s no reason for this.”

His plea is similarly followed by panicked gun fire, abruptly silenced. Steve backtracks to the window, jumping up and hauling himself through the frame into a dark, dusty store room. He pushes through the door and hurries to the hallway, squinting in the sudden light. He turns left, ducking under hanging ceiling tiles and coming face to face with a Hunter lit blue with arc energy. 

Steve jerks his shotgun up reflexively, taking a half step back, but Bucky just raises both hands, head cocked to the side. Light from his arc blade, grasped loosely in his right hand, flickers against the dark cloth of his cloak.

“Hi,” Steve says lowly. 

“Hi yourself,” Bucky snorts amusedly. 

“Sounds like you had some fun with that thing,” Steve nods to Bucky’s hand. 

“Maybe a little,” Bucky concedes. As he says it, the arc energy dissipates and the blade vanishes. Bucky lowers his hands but doesn’t reach for his hand cannon. “So,” Bucky drawls, “you’re not winning. I’m not winning. Wanna get out of here?”

Steve’s stomach flips. “Right now?”

“They won’t miss us,” Bucky laughs, grabbing the barrel of Steve’s shotgun and turning it aside so he can lean in close. “It’s been a couple months.”

“Whose fault is that?” Steve gripes, hanging his shotgun over his shoulders. “I was here the whole time.”

“I was busy,” Bucky shrugs nonchalantly. Steve huffs with fond resignation and slides closer to tap his helmet against Bucky’s. 

“They’re gonna know what we’re up to if we disappear together, you know?”

Bucky grabs ahold of his armor and pushes him back to arm’s length, holding him there. “Do you want to do this or not?” He growls. “Because you’re complaining an awful lot.”

“I’m not complaining,” Steve argues. “I just…” 

He waves his hand searchingly, frustrated with his inability to put it into words. Bucky has never explicitly told Steve he wants to keep things secret, but his downright paranoid secrecy when they’re together seems pretty straightforward. It’s put him in something of an unpleasant spot, stuck between his friends who care about him and Bucky’s unspoken request for silence. 

“It’s not really fair to me,” Steve says. “You can disappear for three months and no one will say anything. But if I do something like this, they’re going to ask what I’ve been up to.”

“So?” Bucky snaps. 

“So,” Steve barks, “you’re asking me to lie to my friends about something I don’t really want to lie to them about!”

“I never asked you to lie,” Bucky bites out. 

“You’re unbelievable,” Steve snarls under his breath. “So I’ll just hop on the radio then. ‘Hey everyone, Bucky and I are running off to fuck because he’s been gone for months and that’s a thing we do.’ Sound good?”

“Fuck off,” Bucky thunders, shoving Steve back several stumbling steps. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I really don’t,” Steve sighs, deflating. “And you won’t tell me.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Bucky rumbles threateningly. 

“I know,” Steve says quickly, lifting both hands in surrender. “But this fucking sucks.”

Bucky laughs, a dark and bitter sound. “You don’t have to tell everyone you meet your entire life story.”

“I know,” Steve grits out through clenched teeth, barely keeping his frustration in check. “But I like you a lot Buck and I can’t even tell any of my friends about it.”

Bucky visibly tenses, frozen. “Why?” He asks hoarsely, stricken. 

Steve shrugs. He’s not sure which part of that statement Bucky is questioning, but he can’t even begin to unpack all the answers he has for it anyway. 

“Steve,” Bucky urges, almost begging. 

“I--”

There’s a crash and Monty comes slamming around the corner at the end of the corridor, gun raised. In a blink, Bucky has drawn his hand cannon. Steve finds himself staring down the barrel at the inscrutable visor of Bucky’s helmet. 

The bullet in his skull hurts a lot less than the strain on his heart.

* * *

In the early morning lavender-pink sky, the gently falling snowflakes glint bright and warm. Bucky pushes his hood back, yanking off his helmet and tossing it carelessly to the ground. It disappears before it touches down, transmatted by his Ghost. Bucky throws his arms wide and turns his face to the sky, tiny smile curving his lips. 

Bucky must have died young the first time around. His face always speaks of youth, despite his bitter, harsh attitude, but he looks downright childlike now, filled with simple wonder. He sticks his tongue out, trying desperately to catch a snowflake. It’s downright adorable, innocent and sweet. All words Steve would never think to use when describing Bucky, but terribly apt here. He spins slowly, a little laugh bubbling out of him. He looks to Steve, light eyes bright and happy. 

“It’s snowing!” He calls to Steve, waving a beckoning hand. Steve bites his lip, smiling at the ground, so terribly fond. Steve is ruined, he knows he is, so completely in love with this boy who refuses to love him back. Absently, he picks at the latch on his helmet, barely freeing his head before Bucky slams bodily into him.

Art by EmeraldWolf [[AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11838417) | [Tumblr](https://myfandemonium.tumblr.com/post/164330534774/snowfall-at-the-iron-temple-drawn-for-the-stucky)] 

Bucky clings to him, easy and beautiful and younger than Steve’s ever seen him. “Steve,” he enthuses softly, “Stevie. It’s snowing.”

“Yeah,” Steve laughs, amused and incredibly willing to go along with whatever Bucky wants here. “Yeah it is, Buck.”

Bucky works his arms up Steve’s body, from his ribs up over his shoulders, to settle around his neck. The warm leather on his gloved fingers works up and down Steve’s bare neck slowly, and Bucky begins to sway. Steve gets lost in his eyes, the smell of him, the fingers moving on his skin. As Bucky moves, Steve begins to rock along with him. 

They turn lethargically, clearing a little circle of snow where there feet fall. Snowflakes land on Bucky’s dark hair like polka dots, sparkling in the weak morning light. There’s a small, private smile on Bucky’s lips, like he knows something no one else does, and Steve is hopelessly endeared.

Bucky squeezes the back of his neck, and gently they come to a stop. They press together thigh to chest, smiling like fools.

“Hey,” Bucky breathes, eyes dipping down to Steve’s lips. The soft, sweet feeling pooled in his stomach turns hot, liquid sliding through him. 

“Kiss me,” Steve demands and Bucky laughs lowly. 

“Wow, giving me orders now?” Bucky chuckles, leaning in, tantalizingly close. Steve’s skin breaks out in goosebumps. 

“I can beg,” Steve whispers. Their lips barely brush, a feather light touch. 

“Fuck,” Bucky chokes, body sinking against Steve’s. “Do you do that on purpose? Or is it all unintentional?”

“I do it just to fuck with you,” Steve says. Bucky presses his face against Steve’s neck, shaking with laughter exhaled onto Steve’s skin. Steve turns his chin, kissing Bucky’s temple. With a soft, pleasant sigh, Bucky pushes away. He’s still wearing the sweet, childish smile. 

“But to _fuck_ with me, right?” he teases, waggling his eyebrows. Steve laughs, desperately trying to hold back the words sitting on the tip of his tongue. He loves Bucky so terribly, so completely. If only Bucky would love him back, Steve thinks he could live this endless eternity of war and death happily.

* * *

“Hey Buck,” Steve calls, grin beginning to pull across his lips. Bucky looks up at him, light eyes full of question, and Steve’s grin grows wide and toothy. “Last one home’s a rotten egg.”

He has just a sliver of a moment to watch Bucky’s face twist with surprise before he’s being transmatted to his ship. As soon as he’s solid, Steve scrambles for the controls, laughing to himself like a damn fool. 

“Go, go, go!” His Ghost chants, bouncing and twirling with pent up energy in the space beside Steve’s shoulder. 

“I’m going, I’m going,” Steve laughs, half hysterical with adrenaline. His ship roars to life and blasts through the air, leaving a streak of orange flame behind it. The atmosphere buffets the hull, sending the old metal rattling, but Steve grips the stick hard and pushes for more speed. 

He’s been waiting for a chance to challenge Bucky to another race. A race while traveling from planet to planet is mostly pointless, since all the ships travel long distances at the same speed. Or… bend time and space around them at the same speed? Steve’s still not entirely sure of the mechanism behind interplanetary travel. 

This is the perfect opportunity, though. Skimming dangerously low over the earth, skirting along the southern border of the Himalayas. The world flashes by outside, a blur of greens and browns and whites. The high whine of his ship is complimented by the low rumble of Bucky’s, hot on his tail, and Steve tips his head back and crows with laughter. His hands tremble where they grip the control stick, so thrilled that he can’t keep them steady. 

As they reach the western edge of the mountains, Steve cuts sharply north, on a heading to Old Russia. They cut through a narrow valley between peaks, him and Bucky both jockeying for position as the space tapers to a path only wide enough for one ship. Dropping behind here will likely spell out a loss, but one of them will have to do it. 

Steve grits his teeth and holds steady. The rock walls cinch in tighter and tighter, until Steve is certain he’s going to catch a wing of his ship. 

“Transmission,” his Ghost screeches, followed immediately by Bucky’s voice.

“Just give up, you stubborn bastard,” Bucky urges, voice taut with stress. 

“Pot, Kettle,” Steve grits back. A heavy, tense silence follows. 

“Fuck you,” Bucky hisses, but Steve hears the rush of Bucky’s spoilers activating to slow him down. 

Cackling with a mixture of victory and relief, Steve edges his ship slightly more toward the center line and clears the mountain pass with ease. Following some sort of unspoken truce, Steve slows up a little and gives his ship a bit of altitude. After a moment, Bucky’s ship pulls up alongside him. 

“So, this means I win, right?” Steve taunts, a little breathless. 

“Does this look like the City to you?” Bucky retorts. Steve smiles at the pout in his voice. 

“You backed off. That’s got to be a forfeit,” Steve replies gleefully.

“Look,” Bucky sighs, “you may not believe it, but your skull will not withstand a collision with a mountain.”

“It totally would,” Steve says, just to rile Bucky. 

“At a sparrow’s top speed, your head would definitely be hard enough to withstand the impact,” Bucky concedes, “but these ships are way faster.”

“Nah,” Steve says, bursting into laughter at Bucky’s frustrated groan. 

“If you want to die, be my guest,” Bucky harrumphs. Steve can picture him, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set and lips pressed together, his brows pinched just a bit. He’s so cute when he’s grumpy. 

“I’d resurrect,” Steve shrugs, smiling at his mental image of Bucky. 

“It’d be a hell of a walk back from here though,” Bucky retorts. 

“Aw,” Steve laughs, “you wouldn’t leave me here.”

“If you purposely crashed your ship into a wall to test the hardness of your head,” Bucky says flatly, “I absolutely would.”

“You wouldn’t,” Steve grins. “You look tough, but you’re a big marshmallow.”

“Just for that,” Bucky grunts. His ship pulls up, just slightly ahead of Steve’s, and wobbles side to side, as if the wing is waving at him. Steve lifts an amused brow, but rocks the stick back and forth to mimic the motion. He hears Bucky’s soft laugh and his chest swells with affection. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, saccharin, “have fun being a rotten egg.”

Bucky’s ship blasts forward, dipping into a spiral and plummeting toward the ground. 

“How does he always do this?” Steve shouts, unrestrained smile on his face. He gives chase, but even as he tries his best to catch up, he knows he won’t. It’s something of a surprise to him how little he cares about losing this time. 

They come screaming into the docking area of the tower, their Ghosts transmatting them to the central square and the automated docking system taking control of their ships. When Steve feels the transmat release him, he trots toward Bucky. The Hunter has his helmet on again, but his hip is cocked arrogantly and his hands rest on the narrowest point of his waist. Steve _knows_ he’s wearing the biggest shit-eating grin under that visor. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve huffs, waving Bucky away. 

“Still undefeated,” Bucky chirps, very pleased with himself. “How’s it feel to be so slow?”

“You cheated,” Steve accuses blamelessly.

“I never cheat,” Bucky assures him, lifting one shoulder in a careless shrug. “But if you can’t handle the loss any other way, I’ll take the blame.”

“I’m gonna knock you off the tower if you aren’t careful,” Steve threatens playfully. 

Bucky lifts both hands in a “come at me” gesture. “I’d like to see you try.”

Steve stalks toward him, corralling him against the waist high railing along the front edge of the tower. Bucky goes willingly, settling his palms against the bulk of Steve’s chest piece. It would be a much more compelling position to be in if Steve wasn’t staring into the eerie yellow light of Bucky’s visor. He lets his forehead thunk against Bucky’s helmet and sighs. 

He wants, desperately. For Bucky to be at peace in his own skin, for Bucky to feel the camaraderie and deep connection with his fellow Guardians that Steve has felt all this time. And, selfishly, he wants Bucky to stop holding himself back from this thing between them. 

As if he can hear Steve’s thoughts, Bucky draws away. Slowly, he pushes his hood off and, after peering cautiously over Steve’s shoulder at the nearly abandoned square, carefully plucks off his helmet. He looks up at Steve with wide, uncertain eyes. 

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, cupping Bucky’s jaw. 

“Hi,” Bucky whispers, almost entirely voiceless. 

“I guess the winner needs a prize, huh?” Steve asks, drinking in the lines of Bucky’s face. He watches Bucky’s lips curl into a delicate smirk. 

“I love prizes,” Bucky rumbles. Steve smiles, brushes his thumb along Bucky’s cheek, and leans in to kiss him.

* * *

Steve draws his fist back, trembling as he stares into his own eyes in the mirror. Decades of war, fighting monsters in the dark, and yet here he stands, untarnished. Smooth skinned and fresh faced, like a boy. He lets his fist fly, and the mirror shatters. 

“Guardian,” his Ghost admonishes mournfully. 

“What?” Steve grunts, exhausted. Shards of glass poke out of his knuckles and he gazes at them dispassionately. Like everything else, the pain and blood will disappear as if it never existed. 

“You’re upset,” the Ghost murmurs. 

“I’m not,” Steve replies. It’s a lie, and they both know it. 

“You remember I can read your mind right?” His Ghost jokes weakly. Steve tries to smile, but his mouth doesn’t want to go through the motion. 

With a sigh, Steve drags himself out of the room and away from the glass fragments scattered over the floor. 

“What are we going to do?” Steve murmurs despondently, picking at the glass in the back of his hand. 

“First,” his Ghost chides, “stop picking at your hand. You’ll just make it worse.”

With a show of great effort, Steve leaves the glass sticking out of his hand alone. 

“Second, tell me what’s bothering you,” the Ghost demands. 

“I thought you could read my mind,” Steve retorts. His Ghost takes its physical form just to level a disappointed stare at him. Steve sighs, rubbing the palm of his uninjured hand over his hair. 

“We’re just,” Steve exhales, too exhausted by it all to feel exasperated, “giving them the moon.”

“The Vanguard is trying to protect--”

“The Hive aren’t going to stop at the moon!” Steve interrupts harshly. “You heard Lord Shaxx. This isn’t like before. The Hive are planning something.”

“Even if they are,” his Ghost replies evenly, “you and I alone aren’t going to be able to do anything without the Vanguard’s support.”

“Waiting is just going to make things harder,” Steve grumbles. “They’ll get comfortable on the moon and then they’ll come for us.”

“I know,” his Ghost sighs. “The Vanguard must know, too, Guardian. They’ve been authorizing more scouting missions lately.”

Steve sucks in a sharp breath, holding it in his lungs. Panic tickles under his skin. “Great,” he chokes out. 

“You’re worried,” his Ghost says. “He hasn’t been gone any longer than usual.”

“But he should be back today,” Steve murmurs. 

“He’s missed your birthday before,” the Ghost soothes. “I’m sure everything is fine.”

“He specifically told me he’d be back for this one,” Steve insists, shaking his head. “He said half a century was worth celebrating.”

“I can try sending him a message,” his Ghost offers. 

“No,” Steve sighs. “If he’s late because of his mission, then he doesn’t need the distraction.”

“And if it’s not his mission holding him up?”

“Then he’s not going to answer anyway,” Steve grumbles, “and I might have to kill him myself.”

“If you’re going to do that,” his Ghost says mildly, “you’re going to need both your hands.”

Steve looks down at his bleeding knuckles. “And?”

“I know most Guardians don’t realize this,” the Ghost sighs, “but there are medical facilities here. Please go see someone to properly take care of that.”

“I could just throw myself off the tower,” Steve suggest blandly, pushing to his feet to retrieve one of the shirts he so very rarely uses. Being out of his armor feels strange beyond reason. 

“Please don’t,” his Ghost pleads. “Why is that always your first response? You get a paper cut and the next thing I know, you’re jumping off the nearest tall structure.”

Steve finally cracks a thin smile. “It’s so much faster than healing like a normal person.”

“Ugh,” his Ghost groans. “Leaving all the hard work to me.”

Steve goes to leave, casting a frown at the shattered mirror on the floor. “Happy birthday, old man,” he mutters, and walks away.

* * *

Steve laughs, shoving Bucky aside playfully and taking off at a full sprint. He doesn’t make it very far before a weight slams into his back, Bucky’s arms looped around his shoulders. It trips Steve up, and he crashes into the ground, the both of them yelping with laughter. Unwilling to concede defeat so quickly, he squirms around until he catches Bucky’s long cloak in a fist, yanking unapologetically. 

Howling, Bucky twists away and Steve reels him back in. They grapple fiercely, rolling around in the sparse grass as they try to pin each other. It’s all in good fun until Bucky drives three solid punches into Steve’s unprotected flank. Whining, Steve curls around the sore spot and tosses Bucky onto his back with enough force to shake Bucky’s breath loose on impact. They lie on their backs, wheezing as they recover from their roughhousing.

“That was rude,” Steve grunts eventually. 

“I gotta win somehow,” Bucky says shakily, breath still off. 

Steve rolls onto his side. “You don’t have to get violent though,” he says with a wink, blowing Bucky a saucy kiss. 

“Like Hell,” Bucky barks, rolling his eyes. He can’t hide the smile twitching in the corner of his mouth though. With a laugh, Steve grabs a hold of Bucky and hauls him over, draping him over his chest. Bucky helps, half crawling, even though he frowns and huffs like Steve is such an inconvenience to him. Steve aches softly, so fond he could die.

Their eyes meet and Bucky scowls, clapping his hand over Steve’s eyes. The worn leather of his glove is warm. “Don’t fucking look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Steve asks, feigning innocence. 

“You’re not as cute as you think you are,” Bucky says, but his breath whispers hot against Steve’s cheek. 

“Then you should tell me how cute I am,” Steve suggests. Bucky snorts, but Steve feels him give in through the hand that slides into his hair and the lips that drag along his jaw. 

“Not even a little cute,” Bucky murmurs against his ear. It makes Steve shiver, heat surging in his belly, but it makes him laugh, too, deep shaking laughs. Bucky stifles his own soft, breathy laughter against Steve’s temple. 

“Oh, c’mon,” Steve wheedles, “we both know that’s not true.”

“It’s 100% true,” Bucky insists, nipping at Steve’s skin gently. 

“Bucky,” Steve whines. 

“Steve,” Bucky mocks him, licking a line up his throat. Steve groans softly and Bucky laughs. He drags the back of his fingers over Steve’s cheek and nips his chin, grinning when Steve groans again. 

“You’re killin’ me Buck,” Steve pants. 

“Lucky for me,” Bucky murmurs, “you can’t die.”

Bucky pushes himself up, pulling his hand away from Steve’s eyes. He’s wearing the kind of easy, crooked grin that could charm the Fallen into surrendering, and Steve’s heart twists in his chest. Love fills him up, warm and velvety like honey but undercut with cold, sharp despair. It must be written all over his face, because the soft affection on Bucky’s vanishes in a blink. Emotions pass over Bucky’s face, flashes of feeling one right after the other. Terrible anxiety, wrenching agony, biting anger. He smoothes it all out, blank faced and distant, and rises grimly to his feet. 

“I should get back,” Bucky says mildly, devoid of anything. 

“Buck,” Steve implores, not quite pleading, wedging himself up with his elbows. But the Hunter’s Ghost is already waiting for him and his helmet is materializing in his hands. Their eyes meet for the briefest moment, Bucky’s lips turning down at the corner, but then he yanks his helmet on, quick and decisive. 

“You can get back on your own?” Bucky asks, carefully distant. 

Steve heaves a sigh, letting his arms go limp and collapsing back down to the ground. He hums noncommittally. 

“Steve,” Bucky chastises, straining to keep his level tone. It makes Steve want to squirm. It makes him want to roll onto his knees and beg Bucky to see this thing between them as something safe and happy rather than the constant, taut fear and inevitable doom their lifestyle wants to hold them in. Why can’t Bucky see that being happy now is better than living forever on this constant knife edge of desperate wanting, no matter what their futures hold?

“Yes,” Steve spits out. He rubs at his eyes, swallowing hard and then again, trying to loosen the tightness in his throat. “Yes,” he says again, calmer now. “I can get back just fine.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, supplicating but so small, like a scolded child. Steve’s heart aches to hear him sound so unsure, and he has to take several deep breaths to keep himself steady. It’s easy to get carried away by his own feelings, the hurt and sadness and resentment. It’s much harder to remember that Bucky is trying, that every inch he gives Steve stretches his nerves to their very limits. 

Steve takes it all in, the good and bad, the comfort and pain, and lets it all out on a heavy exhale. He lumbers to his feet and steps toward Bucky, clapping him on the bicep below the sharp metal V protruding from his shoulder. 

“I’m good, Buck,” he says cheerily, though even he can hear how manufactured his liveliness is. He barrels on anyway, because they both need him to. “You head back to the tower. I’ve got some things to do out here anyway.”

Bucky is deathly still for a long moment, before nodding once, sharply. He disappears in a flash of white light, transmatted to his ship waiting somewhere in orbit, most likely. Steve cracks his knuckles, rolls his neck, and lets all the bitter, impotent rage he usually holds at bay come rushing in. It sings through his veins, mixing with the arc energy buzzing under his skin. 

“Hey, Ghost,” Steve says. 

“Yes, Guardian?” The little AI’s voice drifts out of the air. 

“We’re pretty far from the City, right?”

“Hmm,” the Ghost hums thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s an apt description.” It falls silent for a moment, then continues suspiciously. “Are you planning something stupid?”

“Who me?” Steve asks, though there’s less humor to it than he’d like. 

“Oh no,” his Ghost groans. “You _are_ planning something stupid. You always do this.”

“I’m sure there are a lot of Fallen this far out,” Steve says. He makes a fist and arc energy explodes from his hand, arc bolts leaping outward. “I’m just doing my job.”

His Ghost sighs resignedly. “Funny how we always have to punch Fallen to death every time we get rebuffed by him, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees easily, storming out into the frozen, half dead terrain of Old Russia. “What a strange coincidence.”


	5. A Titan's Guide to Accepting Limits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the very bestest, my savior and sanity, my sounding board and partner in crime, [SiriusGrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiriusGrey/profile)
> 
> Title from "Black Sun on the Horizon" by Gunship.
> 
> I was lucky enough to get 2 super lovely artists for this fic, [EmeraldWolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeraldwolf/pseuds/Emeraldwolf) and [koreanrage](http://koreanrage.tumblr.com/). I'll add links to their art posts with the embedded images in the fic, so please give them some love for their awesome work! 
> 
> This fic could probably be read alone, but it'll make a whole lot more sense if you read [Part 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11156742/chapters/24896103) first.
> 
> **Glossary**
> 
> _Guardian_ : A reanimated corpse-turned-specialized soldier tasked with the defense of the last city on Earth and exploration of the lost remnants of humanity's Golden Age throughout the solar system.  
>  _Titan_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on strength and power.  
>  _Hunter_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on speed and finesse.  
>  _Warlock_ : A class of Guardian with a focus on... "space magic."  
>  _Traveler_ : A mysterious, city-sized sphere hovering close to Earth's surface which grants superhuman abilities to Guardians.  
>  _Ghost_ : A levitating artificial intelligence used by Guardians.  
>  _HUD_ : "Heads Up Display"  
>  _Fireteam_ : A small squad composed of 2 to 6 Guardians.  
>  _Cosmodrome_ : A shipyard located in Old Russia that once served as a vital link to space.

_"With proper tactics and proper execution, a Fireteam of two Guardians can fight indefinitely."_  
—Lord Shaxx

* * *

Steve leans on the railing, looking out over the bustling city below. 

“What the fuck is this?” a familiar voice asks, and Steve feels a pull on the Mark strung from his hip. “New war gets planned and you have to wear the old Six Fronts mark?”

“Oh yeah?” Steve asks. “The first thing you notice is my ass, huh?”

Bucky laughs brightly, collapsing against the railing to Steve’s right. “You caught me,” he grins crookedly. Steve smiles back at him, hopelessly adoring. 

“You back for a while?” Steve asks, trying to keep the hope out of his voice. “Or are you heading out again soon?”

Bucky shrugs too casually. “From the sound of it, I’m here until we storm the moon.”

“Facing down innumerable alien forces side by side?” Steve grins, despite the dark subject. “Just like old times.”

Bucky’s eyes flick over Steve’s face, then scan the length of his body once. Steve has to bite his tongue to keep himself from begging Bucky to stay here, with him. For them to be really together, the way Steve has desperately wanted for years now. The sex is great, and there’s a very real, very deep connection between them, but Bucky has continually resisted giving in to it. He’s the only one Steve wants, so despite his dissatisfaction, he makes himself content with their relationship. 

“Together, yeah,” Bucky breathes softly. His left hand lands on Steve’s right forearm, and he lifts up on his toes to press a kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth. Steve startles, staring at Bucky wide-eyed. They’ve traded hundreds, maybe thousands of kisses by now, but Bucky has always been determined to keep the nature of their relationship strictly secret. Yet here he is, kissing Steve right in the middle of the Tower. 

“Bucky,” Steve whispers pleadingly, when Bucky drops back onto the flat of his feet. The Hunter looks up through his lashes, blushing very slightly. Steve’s stomach swoops. 

“Hey Steve,” Bucky replies shyly. 

“Hi,” Steve says, unable to stop the silly smile curling his lips. Bucky returns it briefly, before his expression sobers. 

“I don’t want to go to the moon,” he admits, brow pinched. Steve uses his left hand to brush across Bucky’s forehead, smoothing away wrinkles with his thumb. 

“What’s up?” Steve asks. Bucky doesn’t usually balk at a fight, even the ones that seem like a sure loss.

“Something about this doesn’t seem right,” Bucky murmurs. He grips Steve’s forearms with both hands, meeting his eyes seriously. “Something very bad is going to happen, I know it.”

“Stay with me,” Steve blurts. Bucky quirks a brow at him. “I mean, when we go to the moon. Stick with me. We’ll be better off together.”

“Yeah?” Bucky breathes. There’s a hint of a smile starting at the corner of his mouth. 

“Yeah,” Steve affirms. “Please.”

“I’ll stay. Now, on the moon,” he pauses, giving Steve a long, heated look. “For as long as you want me.”

Steve’s breath catches and he can’t stop himself from reaching up to cup Bucky’s jaw in his hand. He leans forward, touching their foreheads together. “Always, Buck. I’ll always want you.”

“You say that now,” Bucky whispers, before lifting his chin and bringing their mouths together in a sweet, chaste kiss. 

“I mean it,” Steve exhales across Bucky’s lips. Bucky rocks back on his heels, smiling up at Steve. 

“Prove it,” he challenges playfully, waggling his eyebrows. Steve laughs, stepping forward until the abrupt protrusion of his chest piece clacks sharply with Bucky’s more discreet armor. He loops his arms around Bucky’s shoulders and laughs into his hair, leaving kisses against his scalp. 

“I’m serious,” Bucky whines into the soft skin just below Steve’s ear. Steve gives him another firm squeeze before stepping back. 

“Okay, let’s go somewhere… More private,” Steve teases, trying to rearrange his face into the ridiculous, sensual expression that looks so good on Bucky. The Hunter bursts into laughter, collapsing forward into Steve, palm slapping at his armor looking for purchase. 

He manages to reel in his amusement, letting his expression turn lusty and heated. “Lead on, big boy.”

Steve grasps his hand, and the two of them charge through the tower, giggling like children the whole way. They crash through loitering groups of Guardians with hollered apologies, and Steve trips over a sweeper bot simply trying to sweep a hallway. By the time they stumble through the doorway of one of the tiny dorms in the Tower, the two of them are breathless and red-faced. Steve pushes Bucky back against a wall and leans in to drag his mouth over Bucky’s stubbled jaw. 

“Steve,” Bucky moans imploringly, arching up into the Titan’s hard body. 

“I’ve got you, Buck,” Steve says, hot against Bucky’s throat. The guttural moan he gets in answer nearly knocks the wind out of him. Steve drops his forehead to Bucky’s shoulder, picking uselessly at the clasps and buckles that keep his armor on. One of Bucky’s hands curl around Steve’s nape, and his lips brush against Steve’s ear. 

“I’ve always got you, Steve,” he whispers with breathless conviction. “Know that. Fucking always.”

Steve shivers, turning his head so his lips brush Bucky’s neck when he speaks. “I love you. Bucky, I love you so much.”

Bucky hums softly, fingers sifting through Steve’s short hair. He yanks, losing his grip long before Steve is forced to move but it’s enough to convince Steve to lift his head. Bucky is looking at him through half lidded eyes, skin flushed and lips parted. Steve sighs heartily and leans in to kiss him, hot and deep and lingering. 

Eventually Bucky throws his head back to gasp for air, so Steve mouths down Bucky’s throat, fingers fumbling uselessly against his armor. “Why is armor so hard to get off?” Steve moans against Bucky’s neck. 

Bucky chokes back a moan of his own, setting has palms against Steve’s shoulders to push him a step back. “It’s not supposed to come off easy,” Bucky chuckles, beginning the long process of peeling off his armor piece by piece. Steve stands transfixed, watching Bucky shedding clothing with easy indifference, until he’s down to nothing but the heavy material of his pants. Bucky’s eyes flick up to Steve and he snorts. “You gonna keep your armor on for this?”

“No!” Steve yelps, scrambling to unclasp the thick plasteel that makes up the outermost layer of his armor. He can feel Bucky’s eyes on him as he strips down to the thick rubbery bodysuit all Titans wear under the individual outer armor pieces. They stare at each other, the sound of Bucky unsnapping his pants startling in its intensity in the otherwise quiet room. 

“Need help with that?” Bucky asks, low and teasing as he slides out of his pants. Steve laughs shyly, eyes dropping to the floor as he remembers their first time together. 

“No, I think I can handle it,” he says, unfastening the neck and squirming to work the heavy, clinging material down his body. He hears Bucky snickering, which makes his face heat with an embarrassed flush, but he keeps his attention on shimmying free of his clothes. He kicks the bodysuit off one foot, hopping on the other gracelessly. He keeps his eyes glued to the floor once he’s naked, too embarrassed to look at Bucky, despite the knowledge that this exact thing has happened every time. 

“Jesus,” Bucky exhales, drawing Steve’s eyes up only so far as his shins. “I ever tell you that you’re real beautiful, Steve?”

Steve snorts, feeling his face and neck heat up with a blush. “You’re not bad yourself, Buck,” Steve murmurs, inexplicably shy. He’s had sex with Bucky so many times, but there’s something different about this. Bucky kissing him in public, or his breathless promises, or the looming threat of the Hive on the moon. Steve is afraid to look Bucky in the eye, in case he’s the only one feeling the tension. 

“Hey,” Bucky whispers, directly in front of him. Steve jolts, surprised by Bucky’s sneaky approach, but reaches out to take Bucky’s hands on instinct. Their fingers intertwine and Bucky leans in, bracing against Steve’s strength, to kiss his chest, just over his heart. Bucky straightens up and Steve finally works up the nerve to meet his eyes. There’s nothing but deep, warm affection in his heavily lidded eyes and Steve smiles tentatively. 

Bucky squeezes his hands. “What’re you so shy about darlin’?” He leaves a trail of kisses up Steve’s jaw, back toward his ear. 

“I don’t know,” Steve mumbles. The truth is scarier than the lie, and Bucky lets him keep it, breathing damp air across his skin.

“Okay,” he says, pressing Steve into stepping backwards and guiding him to the bed. Steve sits heavily, tipping his chin up to watch Bucky, who watches him right back. He shakes his hands free of Steve’s grasp and cups his palms over Steve’s cheeks gently. “I’ll take care of you Steve.”

Steve lets him do just that. Gentle hands on his skin and damp mouth whispering soft encouragements. He takes his pleasure from Steve’s body slowly, achingly, but he’s generous with his hands, his mouth, when it’s time to give Steve his own. And throughout it all, Steve becomes ever more aware that, in Bucky’s mind, this is their last moment together. 

They both lie, sated and cooling, tucked against each other in silence, thoughts turning inevitably to the battle awaiting them in the morning. 

“We’re going to die tomorrow,” Bucky whispers into the quiet. Steve squeezes him close.

“No, we’re not.”

“Don’t be stupid, Steve,” Bucky mumbles. He pushes himself up on one elbow, looking down at Steve, a swoop of brown hair falling across his forehead. “When I die-”

“Bucky,” Steve whines, reaching for him. Bucky catches his arm, pushing him down onto his back and shifting over him. 

“When I die,” he repeats firmly, “don’t forget what you’re fighting for, Steve.”

“You’re not going to die, Bucky,” Steve says sharply, driven by his fear of Bucky’s certainty. “You can’t die.”

“You’ll be fine, Steve,” Bucky whispers, levering himself down so he can tap his forehead against Steve’s. “You don’t need me.”

“I _want_ you,” Steve grunts, feeling his throat tighten with emotion. He’s always been more devoted to their relationship than Bucky. “I love you, Buck, you can’t die.”

“I know, Steve,” Bucky murmurs, shifting his weight to his elbow so he can stroke a palm down Steve’s ribs. “I warned you not to get invested.”

“You can’t just give up before anything even happens,” Steve insists, voice lurching with the effort of holding back his anger and tears. “I’ll run void tomorrow, so we’ll have the bubble if things go south. Please, Bucky.”

“You’re so stubborn,” Bucky hisses, lowering himself entirely onto Steve. He’s heavy, but Steve will gladly take the sharp elbows and cold feet if it means Bucky’s still here with him. “Force of will isn’t enough.”

“Fine,” Steve snaps lowly, “but you don’t have to give up before we’ve even begun.”

Bucky pushes up to stare down at Steve. His eyes are red rimmed, like he’s been crying, and that more than anything sends tears pooling in his eyes. “Are you talking about the moon right now?” Bucky accuses. “Or us?”

“Does it matter?” Steve growls, pushing Bucky off himself and scooting to the edge of the bed. He buries his face in his hands and breathes hard. He should have known something was off when Bucky was so freely affectionate with him earlier. He rubs his hands over his face slowly, trying to rein in his emotions. 

“It does matter,” Bucky murmurs from behind him. “You matter, Steve. You’re the only person in my entire, fucked up life I’ve ever believed in.”

Steve sucks in a shuddering breath, hunching over himself even more. Bucky’s fingertips brush down his spine lightly. “Bullshit,” Steve spits. Bucky jerks, if the way the bed suddenly shudders is any indication. Steve smiles bitterly at the floor. “Don’t give me that when you’re trying to shut me out.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky snarls, and then they both fall into silence, stewing on opposite sides of the bed. Every now and then, Steve hears Bucky’s breath shudder out of his throat, and Steve has to bite down on his lip to stop himself from offering him any comfort. 

“Run away with me,” Bucky breathes eventually. “Fuck the goddamn moon. Let’s take a tour of the fucking galaxy and…”

“Bucky,” Steve whispers, admonishing. He can’t deny that he’s tempted, but he can’t let everyone else he knows put themselves in the line of fire while he goes on a joyride. 

“Please, Steve,” Bucky pleads, crawling across the bed to drape himself over Steve’s back. Steve finds his hands and curls their fingers together. “Nothing good will come of attacking the Hive.”

“I have to go,” Steve whimpers, leaning back against Bucky’s firm chest. 

“I know,” Bucky sobs, dropping his forehead to Steve’s shoulder. “And I can’t let you go alone.”

“Maybe you can,” Steve suggests, squeezing Bucky’s hand. “I’ll go and you can stay here and keep an eye on the City.”

“I’m not letting you fucking go alone,” Bucky grunts. “I’ve been with you since Six Fronts. Don’t be stupid.”

“I’ll be okay, Bucky,” Steve insists. “I’ll have Dum Dum and the boys.”

“No, Steve,” Bucky groans. He scrambles suddenly to turn Steve, staggering on his knees to get beside him. Steve shifts, grabbing Bucky’s arms to steady him. 

“What, Buck? What?” Steve asks, searching Bucky’s frantic eyes. 

“You can’t go alone,” Bucky asserts, pawing at Steve’s face and chest desperately. Fear creeps into Bucky’s expression, a downward quirk in the corner of his mouth, a pinch between his brows, tension around his bright eyes. “I can’t let you go alone.”

“I’ll be careful,” Steve assures him, wrapping his palms around Bucky’s rib cage. “I promise I’ll come back to you.”

“No,” Bucky grunts, hands settling roughly on either side of Steve’s face. The fear leaves his face, replaced with the hard edges of determination. “I can’t let you go because…”

“Because?” Steve whispers, brushing his thumb gently over Bucky’s skin. 

“Because I can’t lose you,” Bucky says, eyes dropping away from Steve’s. “Because I love you,” he whispers, voice nearly gone by the end of his declaration. 

“Bucky,” Steve sniffles, joy and agony mixing together and dripping like honey down the back of his throat. Bucky launches himself into Steve’s arms, toppling the both of them down onto the bed. They lie together, holding each other close. The emotional trip they’ve taken leaves Steve exhausted, so much so that he can barely process anything beyond Bucky’s hands on his back. 

“Fuck,” Bucky whispers. “I’ve been trying so hard not to give in. I kept leaving, hoping I’d stop feeling like this.”

“Why?” Steve asks, boggled. He can’t imagine keeping his love from Bucky, so how could his feelings be so different?

“Now it’s real,” Bucky chokes. “Now one of us ends up hurting, no matter what.”

“Buck, I’d rather die knowing you love me than wondering if I meant the same to you as you did to me,” Steve whispers fiercely. He combs his fingers through Bucky’s hair slowly, luxuriating in the sleek feel of it. “And, hell, I’ve been telling you I love you for ages now.”

Bucky laughs wetly against Steve’s neck. “Fuck,” he moans, “how did you do this to me? This wasn’t supposed to happen to me.”

Steve smiles, eyes slipping shut. “I love you, Bucky.”

Bucky pulls away, and Steve opens his eyes. Bucky’s meet his. “I love you, Steve.” He collapses back down with a groan. “Christ, I fucking love you.”

“I promise,” Steve says firmly, “I won’t ever stop fighting to get back to you. I want to live. I want to play in the snow with you and draw embarrassing pictures of you and laugh with you and get completely destroyed trying to race you and have sex with you and tell you I love you. Nothing’s gonna fucking kill me as long as I have all that to keep fighting for.”

“Fuck, Steve,” Bucky chokes. “Me too. All of that for me too.”

His expression twists with barely concealed agony, and Steve knows that Bucky doesn’t believe any of that wanting is enough to save them from the dark fate he fears for them. 

Steve kisses him, as soft and sweet as he knows how. Bucky sinks into it, voice vibrating in his throat. He knows Bucky’s fears are warranted and their lives are barely guaranteed, but he has to believe they can survive. Steve has to believe he was brought forward through hundreds of years to be here, to protect everyone who can’t protect themselves and to fall in love. If there was a way to share this strength of belief with Bucky, Steve would do it in a heartbeat. 

A thought occurs to him, a completely wild idea, and he freezes. Bucky draws back, eyes heavy lidded and maybe a touch swollen. “Steve?”

“Bucky,” Steve says slowly, as if he’s hearing the name for the first time, tasting it. “I have a crazy idea.”

“Jesus,” Bucky grumbles, flopping onto the bed and burying his face in the messy blankets. “I’m too tired for it.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“But I know you,” Bucky groans. Steve grins, leaning over him to kiss a line from his shoulder to his spine. 

“I love you,” Steve sing songs, shedding all the heavy emotions they’ve been mired in. He feels suddenly, inexplicably fearless. 

Bucky rolls his neck, peering at Steve out of the corner of one eye. “I’m not gonna say it every time,” he grumbles. “You’ve already gotten it out of me more times than I’m strictly comfortable with.”

“Let’s go down to the City,” Steve urges. Bucky reaches blindly for him, arm flapping through the air limply. 

“Can’t you just fuck me into the mattress and cuddle with me all night instead?”

Steve laughs. “I’ll gladly do both of those things with you if you’ll come to the City with me first.”

“God, you drive a hard bargain,” Bucky complains, pushing himself up slowly. He gets a good look at Steve’s beaming smile, and his lips twitch into an answering smile, almost uncertainly. “What are you smiling about?”

“This guy I’ve been in love with for _ever_ told me he loves me today,” Steve gushes, eyes tracking Bucky’s sluggish movement toward his discarded armor. 

Bucky snorts, wagging a finger at him disapprovingly. “First, you are ridiculous,” Bucky says, then slides off the bed and stoops to pick up his pants. “Second,” he says as he yanks his pants on, “you shouldn’t let a boy affect your moods this much.”

“But I really like him,” Steve grins. Bucky chances a look at him, breaking into a smile and turning away with a little shake of his head. 

“Boys are nothing but trouble Steve,” he sighs. He looks disappointed, but his eyes are full of humor. “You should know better.”

“Then I guess he ought to know better too,” Steve says, too fond to play act with Bucky any more.

Bucky rolls his eyes, lips quirked at the corners, and continues pulling on his armor piece by piece. “You gonna get dressed? Or were you going to visit the City like that?”

* * *

“No, Steve,” Bucky balks, hands held up defensively. His eyes are huge in his face. 

“C’mon Buck,” Steve cajoles, waving him forward. “What have we got to lose?”

Bucky’s shock hardens into something angry and cynical. “What have we got to lose?” He repeats disbelievingly. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“Bucky,” Steve pleads, stepping close and cupping his hands around Bucky’s jaw. Bucky tenses, but doesn’t look away from Steve’s eyes. It’s probably for the best, given the little crowd they’re drawing. Two Guardians arguing in the middle of the City? Definitely an event worth gawking at. 

Bucky’s eyes are wide and open, staring into Steve’s. There’s fear there, a deep well of unmitigated terror curled in the depths. Anxiety pinches the corners of his eyes and anger pulls across his lips. But there’s warmth, too. Affection softening his brows and desire in his lowered eyelids. 

It’s been just about half a century, but Steve is still devastated by Bucky Barnes. 

“I love you,” Steve says gently, just to watch Bucky’s expression work through a tangle of emotion before settling on pleasure. Steve feels like he could fly, looking at this face. 

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, eyes slipping shut. They stay like that, simply breathing, until Steve feels Bucky’s jaw clench under his hands. “Fine,” he growls, yanking Steve’s hands away. “Let’s get this over with.”

He slips around Steve and pushes into the dingy shop, stooping a bit to fit through the civilian sized doorway. Steve smiles stupidly and follows after him. 

The counter is a glass case displaying items, because transactions here are all done physically. It feels unfamiliar to Steve, though he knows it hadn’t been once upon a time. Letting his Ghost deal with all his purchases is simply second nature to him now. The shopkeep is a small, dark skinned man, frozen bent over behind the counter and gaping openly at the Guardians standing in his shop. 

“G--Guardians!” The man yelps, hands taking part in a flurry of motion that serves no real purpose, as far as Steve can see. “Can--Can I--Can I help you with something?”

“Rings,” Steve says firmly. His eyes flick down to the assortment of gaudy jewelry in the display case and tacks on, “simple gold bands.”

“Not gold,” Bucky grumbles and Steve grins helplessly at the store clerk. 

“Not gold, then,” he agrees. 

“Right, right,” the man mutters frantically, scooping up a set of jangling keys and opening a drawer on the opposite side of the case. He produces a white rectangular box and opens the lid with a flourish. Inside is row upon row of shiny, silver colored rings, nestled in dark fabric. “These,” the man says brightly, “are our finest spinmetal bands. Prettier than silver and stronger than platinum, these are some of the rarest rings you can find.”

When his sales pitch ends, Steve turns to give Bucky a shit-eating grin. He has more spinmetal in his inventory than he could ever possibly need. Bucky rolls his eyes. 

“You don’t have silver?” He asks gruffly, making the salesman jump. 

“I--I do,” he stutters, voice rising in question. He bends to retrieve a different box, this one smaller and roughly worn. The man plucks two rings out and holds them up. It’s not until Steve reaches for them that the man seems to realize there’s a problem. 

“We, uh, we don’t have any sized for Guardians,” he apologizes, eyes on Steve’s hand. “But we can resize them. It’ll only take a day or two!”

Steve smiles. “We can’t really wear them anyway,” he shrugs, thinking of all the abuse his knuckles take in a fight. “We’ll get chains,” he adds, miming placing a necklace over his head. 

“Of course,” the man nodes. He takes a few nervous steps to his left and gestures to an upright stand. “We have nice, sturdy chains available as well.”

Steve nods along, content to get the rings and get out now, when Bucky speaks up behind him. 

“We’ll get them resized later,” he says hurriedly, words mashed together in his haste. Steve looks at him in surprise, and Bucky shuffles anxiously under the scrutiny. There’s conviction clear in him, though, in his lifted chin and squared shoulders. 

“Okay,” Steve says, smiling tentatively. “We’ll get chains for now and resize them later.”

The salesman nods enthusiastically, probably pleased to be making a sale. Or perhaps, given the way he hustles through the transaction, simply eager to get the undead space soldiers out of his shop. He stays polite, even as he nearly shoves them out the door, and Steve wonders if he’s afraid of them. He wonders how many of the eyes that follow them through the City do so not out of curiosity or awe, but genuine fear. 

Bucky leads them, this time, following a circuitous route through the City out toward the Wall. They bypass the tower altogether, waving lazily to the Titans standing guard at the gate out to the Cosmodrome. They meet each other’s eyes, reaching a silent agreement, and yank their helmets on. With the sky burning pink and purple around the setting sun, they make their way over the slushy spring snow to a quiet, secluded meadow. 

As soon as they arrive, Bucky pushes his hood back and rips off his helmet, gasping for breath. His back is to Steve, and as he pulls his helmet off, he can’t help but worry at Bucky’s odd behavior. He knows Bucky’s been pushing himself way outside of his comfort zone today. He only hopes they haven’t gone too far, that Bucky isn’t regretting it now that they’re here. 

“Remember the first time I fucked you out here?” Bucky asks, turning sharply on his heel to waggle his eyebrows at Steve. It was a long time ago now, and the details have begun to fade, but Steve remembers very clearly the almost reverent way Bucky’s fingers had brushed over his skin. But Bucky’s pulling on bravado like a new cloak, so Steve steers clear of so honest an answer. 

“Remember the first time _I_ fucked _you_ out here?” Steve retorts, smirking. 

“How could I forget?” Bucky jokes, winking. 

He’s hiding behind sex, which is nothing new. Any other day, Steve would let him get away with it. Pretend there’s nothing deeper than physical attraction between them and they’re out here just to feel good. They’ll push each other down into the mud and wrestle out of their armor and everything will be cold and disgusting and wonderful. 

But it’s not any other day. Tomorrow they go to war and Steve has a pair of rings burning a hole through the pouch on his belt and he needs to know desperately what Bucky is thinking. Has he used up all his courage for the day or is he regretting how this has turned out? Steve has always accepted Bucky’s limits on their relationship, but he’s never been this uncertain of where those limits lie. 

“Buck,” he murmurs, and all the playfulness drains away. He turns away from Steve again, and tips his face up to the purpling sky. With a heavy sigh, Steve digs out one of the rings, letting it hang from the end of its chain. He steps up behind Bucky and dangles it over his shoulder. 

Bucky huffs a sigh, closing his fist around the simple band and pressing his knuckles to his chest. Bucky whispers something Steve can’t hear, then spins around and pressing the ring back into Steve’s hand. Steve takes it numbly, barely acknowledging the pain of rejection. It’s not like he’d actually asked Bucky if he wanted this. And anyway, it’s an old ache, revisited every time Bucky’d gotten spooked by their closeness. Still, he clamps his hand around the ring so tightly his hand hurts. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, wrapping his hand around the back of Steve’s neck and urging him down until they can press their foreheads together. It’s a ritual they’ve performed a million times, but never without the barrier of their helmets. “Let’s stash them in the tower until we get back.”

“Why?” Steve asks, voice tight. He’d gotten him hopes up, swept away by Bucky’s newfound openness. 

“We both have to come back, if those are waiting for us,” Bucky insists, running his hands over Steve’s scalp and cheeks soothingly. 

“But Buck,” Steve complains softly. 

“We’re both going to live, right?” Bucky asks. “Isn’t that what you said?”

Steve bites his tongue, feeling trapped. He had said that and going back now will only give Bucky reason to flee. He’s not sure why, has never really figured out how to follow Bucky’s maze of thoughts, but he knows that to deny his desperate optimism will be the wrong answer to some question only Bucky knows. Steve grits his teeth. 

“If you don’t want--” Steve bites out, but Bucky claps a hand over his mouth. 

“If I didn’t want,” Bucky whispers sharply, “we wouldn’t be out here in the first place.”

“Buck,” Steve whines, voice cracking.

“C’mon doll,” Bucky murmurs, wrapping his arms around Steve’s waist and pulling them flush together. It’s awkward, with their foreheads still touching. 

“Why do you always do this to me?” Steve asks plaintively. It’s a question he’s pondered for a long time, but never voiced aloud. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says softly, leaning into Steve heavily. “I’m a mess.”

“I know,” Steve mumbles dejectedly. 

“Ask me when we get back,” Bucky says urgently. “Right in the middle of the tower, in front of everyone. Get down on one knee and hold up the ring and ask. I promise, I swear I’ll say yes.”

“Why not now?” Steve asks, trying to hold back the anger starting to burn in his gut. 

“Because,” Bucky grits out. Steve pulls back to look him in the eye, but Bucky refuses to get caught. He tucks his chin to his chest and stares at their feet. “Because I don’t want to say yes right now, Steve, alright?”

“Oh, come on, Buck,” Steve snaps. He plants his hands on Bucky’s chest and shoves. “Don’t give me this bullshit now.”

“Shut the fuck up, Steve,” Bucky snarls. “What the fuck do you know?” 

Steve swallows the anger, the thick swell of pain, and looks at him. He sounds mad, but his eyes are wide and wild, and his mouth his slack. It’s not anger driving Bucky. Steve has never been able to pinpoint exactly what it is that scares Bucky so much about being in love, but this is the root of it, right here. 

“I know you’re scared,” Steve offers, quiet. The moment snaps, and Bucky groans, scrubbing at his face roughly. 

“Fuck you,” Bucky grumbles without heat. Steve could keep arguing until he wears Bucky down, but it seems unnecessarily cruel. Especially with the moon looming over them. So he loosens his hold on the ring, placing it back into the pouch with its twin, and scrubs all the heartache and frustration from his voice. 

“That can be arranged,” he jokes, turning on the smarmiest grin in his arsenal. 

“Don’t,” Bucky chokes, like he’s near tears. “Why do you take my shit like this? Why do you always settle for me when all I do is lead you on and hurt you?”

Steve shrugs helplessly. “I love you. I’ll take whatever you can give.”

“You stupid, stubborn son of a bitch,” Bucky growls, lurching forward and slinging his arms around Steve. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Steve shrugs, flattening his palms across Bucky’s lower back. 

“I meant what I said,” Bucky whispers against Steve’s jaw. “Hide those things somewhere and if we both survive the moon, I’ll finally get my fucking shit together for you.”

“But why Buck? Why wait?” 

“Please,” Bucky pleads. “Please make this easy, Steve.”

Steve sucks in a shuddery breath. “What if I never get the chance?”

Bucky pulls away, clapping his hands on either side of Steve’s face. “I will fight like Hell,” Bucky growls. “I’ll keep going until there’s not a single drop of Light left in me, and probably a little more after that.”

“But you won’t take a ring from me,” Steve mutters lowly. 

“Steve,” Bucky groans. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

Steve is heartsore and exhausted. He wants to curl up in bed and hold Bucky and pretend they’re happy and in love and not driven to a purpose that tears them apart. He nods. 

“Okay. Okay Buck. Let’s go back to the tower.”

Bucky’s face twists, like he can’t decide if he’s pleased or hurt by Steve’s acquiescence. 

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky nods, searching Steve’s eyes. If there’s anything beside hurt and dogged determination for him to find, Steve doesn’t know, but Bucky leans in and kisses him. It’s hard, sharp from all the jagged edges they’ve left in each other, but it’s enough for Steve. 

He dredges up the buoyant, rushing joy he’d felt earlier and injects as much humor as he can muster into his voice. “You’d better be ready when we get back from the moon though, because it’s going to be a real production.”

Bucky laughs, a short painful sound. “The wedding of the century.”

“I’m going to invite all of humanity,” Steve jokes through the tightness in his throat. 

“Invite the fucking Fallen if you want,” Bucky huffs, pressing his face into Steve’s neck. “Maybe Draksis will be my best man.”

“Wow, you think you can outdo me like that? At my own wedding?”

“You can ask Sepiks,” Bucky laughs wetly. 

“Oh, you’re right,” Steve hums thoughtfully. He rubs his hands up and down Bucky’s back comfortingly. “A Prime is definitely superior to a Kell.”

“Jesus Christ, Bridezilla,” Bucky mumbles. Steve laughs, twisting to kiss Bucky’s hair. 

“I love you, Buck,” Steve breathes. “Nothing else matters.” 

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky snorts, before leaning back to look at Steve. His eyes are rimmed with red, but dry. “I love you.”

“C’mon,” Steve says, swatting at Bucky’s butt and dancing away from him playfully. “I think I owe you something?”

“Oh yeah,” Bucky says flatly, “can’t wait for all that cuddling.”

Bucky flicks a look at Steve after that, but he can’t decipher what it means. Worry over the implied intimacy of cuddling? Or maybe wondering at the general state of things between them. Whatever the case, Steve has always accepted Bucky’s limits and that isn’t going to change now. He offers his hand, grinning when Bucky hesitantly takes it. 

“Wasn’t there something before the cuddling?” Steve asks teasingly, tapping his finger against his chin. Bucky laughs, sweet and genuine, and bumps their shoulders together hard. This, Steve thinks, is worth all the frustration and hurt of a lifetime. The rings in his pocket don’t matter, so long as he has Bucky at his side. 

And even if he has to fight the entirety of the Hive with nothing but his two bare hands, Steve is going to make sure Bucky gets back to Earth alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnd there we have it. This fic at times was a real struggle for me and didn't turn out quite the way I'd planned. I hope it's still been fun to read. Part 3 of this series is almost entirely unwritten at this exact moment, so unfortunately for those of you looking forward to it, you'll have to wait a bit. I promise I'll make it worth your while though. :)
> 
> One last shout out to my awesome artists! Thank you both so much and I hope you enjoy my fic as much as I've enjoyed your art. 
> 
> Lastly, thank you so much to everyone leaving kudos/bookmarking, and a special huge thank you to everyone commenting. You guys make all of the suffering worth it. <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Snowfall at the Iron Temple](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11838417) by [Emeraldwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeraldwolf/pseuds/Emeraldwolf)




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